


Weaving Olden Dances

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Enjolras is Grantaire's slave but neither of them are happy about it, Fae & Fairies, Identity Issues, M/M, Slavery, Unresolved Sexual Tension, loads of different pronouns, species-based pronouns, that is kind of resolved eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:31:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Alveré, the Pale Court’s sovereign, stared straight ahead as though Enjolras was invisible. How long had he been kneeling? Time was a slippery concept here, but his body was chilled and aching, so for some time surely. And still Alveré sat, shining silver skin and bones the perfect picture of what a fey sovereign should be. A perfect elven specimen, in a perfect fey court, with a perfect fey assemblage.</i>
</p><p><i>Were his mouth not so dry, Enjolras would have spat at them. As it was, it was all he could do to keep himself from toppling over.</i><br/> </p><p>Condemned to death by the Pale Court, Enjolras is saved by a faery mutt who claims him as a slave to save his life and they end up living together. Grantaire challenges many of the things Lamarque taught Enjolras to accept about faeries and humans, and it's all complicated further when Enjolras' true heritage is revealed. Includes many different kinds of faeries, their courts, their politics, their customs, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weaving Olden Dances

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem _The Stolen Child_ by William Butler Yeats. Very appropriate for a fic about faeries, I thought.
> 
> Quick pronoun rundown in case things get confusing!
> 
> Pure, high-bred fey like elves: vae/vaer/vaes/vaerself  
> Two/three bloodlines with distinctive species leanings/the polite default: fae/faer/faes/faerself  
> More than three bloodlines: ey/em/eir/emself  
> Pixies: ix/ix/ixs/ixself  
> Sirens: sir/sire/sire/sireself  
> Ogres/spriggans/above ground but obviously earthy fey: ve/vir/virs/virself  
> Banshees: ae/aer/aers/aerself  
> Naiads/nymphs: ne/nym/nis/nymself  
> Goblins: kir/kir/kirs/kirself  
> Trolls: tae/ter/ters/terself
> 
> Goblins and trolls didn't end up making it to the final cut, but whatever. I owe a huge debt to the [pronouns page](http://askanonbinary.tumblr.com/pronouns) of the askanonbinary tumblr. I've tried to do the best I can, with a couple of tiny modifications here and there, so hopefully there are no pronoun slip-ups in this. Let me know if you see any!

Enjolras was going to die.

On his shoulders, the staff his arms were tied to was heavy, the rope pricking and chafing his elbows and wrists. He had never been in such physical discomfort before – where he had been beaten, his eyebrow throbbed, his cheek ached, his lip was cut and swollen, and the dais below his knees was cold and hard. Cold and hard – just like the fey. And none more so than those of the Pale Court.

Alveré, the Pale Court’s sovereign, stared straight ahead as though Enjolras was invisible. How long had he been kneeling? Time was a slippery concept here, but his body was chilled and aching, so for some time surely. And still Alveré sat, shining silver skin and bones the perfect picture of what a fey sovereign should be. A perfect elven specimen, in a perfect fey court, with a perfect fey assemblage.

Were his mouth not so dry, Enjolras would have spat at them. As it was, it was all he could do to keep himself from toppling over.

The gathered faeries were a collection of the highest, the most beautiful. The Hall of Whispers was the reception hall of the Pale Court, Lamarque had told him. Jealously guarded; few outsiders were allowed to leave once granted entrance. Enjolras certainly wouldn’t leave breathing. To distract himself, he studied the faeries before him. Lamarque was – had been – an elf, but mossier than any here. Enjolras had only seen pictures of other fey, and he could identify most in the hall – elves, sylphs, nymphs…Seelie faeries, pure-blooded and cruel. They gazed at Enjolras with blank, pitiless eyes, and he glared back at them.

Suddenly Alveré sighed, and sat up straight. Enjolras watched from the corner of his eye as the previously languid monarch transformed into an upright ruler, radiating power. The assembled court fell silent immediately, attuned to their sovereign’s moods, and Enjolras looked forward, refusing to lower his gaze in deference.

Alveré pointed at Enjolras and began to speak, high voice empty of emotion. “This changeling has spilt the blood of two of our own. The Lark twins are dead, felled by the changeling’s hand. By the laws of our court, hus life is forfeit. Does anyone plead mercy?”

As if a member of the Pale Court would entreat the sovereign to spare his life and trust its keeping to their protection. Enjolras tightened his grip on the ends of the staff, close to trembling. At least Alveré  had called him human, if not male. It was less of a comfort than he’d hoped.

They would kill him here, on the dais in front of the court. An executioner nearby held a mace ready to cave Enjolras’ skull in when Alveré gave the order. It was a beautiful weapon, made of crystal and studded with gems, not a speck of dirt or blood on it to show that it had been used countless times before. Enjolras wondered whether he would feel it. Would time slow down so that he would feel the fragile bone of his skull give way under the blow? Would it be over too fast for him to react?

The worst moment would be the swing; the second of silence as the executioner brought the mace back, the second before it fell and ended his life, spilling his blood down the steps of the dais. Would the courtiers move out of the way of the mess? Or perhaps his mortal blood would be repelled by their purity and flow around their dainty feet, not permitted to touch them.

The Hall of Whispers was utterly silent, and Enjolras refused to even swallow. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Alveré sighed, fingers rippling – a gesture for the execution to continue. The dais under his knees was a sudden relief – he wouldn’t have been able to stand without shaking now. He didn’t want to die.

“ _Mercy!_ ”

A breeze through thin branches and leaves, rustling and hissing…the whispers of the courtiers. Enjolras’ breath caught, the memory of trees eclipsing the chilled hall for just a moment before reality returned. He followed the eyes of the gathered fey to a dark head in the crowd, the taller elementals and elves backing away as its owner came forward, shouting again, “Mercy! Please, I beg mercy, sovereign.”

Alveré shifted, and Enjolras dug his fingers into the wood of the staff to stop himself flinching as the sovereign’s displeasure lashed the hall like the crack of a whip. The stranger was not dissuaded, and Enjolras stared as the dark head came closer.

“R, highness,” one of Alveré’s guards murmured. “ _It_ is an entertainer.”

R. Aire, just a sound, an initial. A strange name for a faery. What R was, Enjolras couldn’t tell – it was shorter than many of the others, and shabbier, its long brown coat at odds with the finery around it. The only ones with darker skin were the fire elementals, coal-black and ash-grey shot through with glowing red veins, and the deep blue sidhe, and R looked dirty and small in comparison to their innate majesty. For the courtier to say _it_ …it had to be a mutt, a mongrel of many blood types. Its only distinguishing feature was the pair of dark horns protruding from the front of its head, the bases hidden in tangles of black curls.

It kept its eyes on the sovereign as it came forward and ascended the steps to the dais, kneeling in front of the throne with its fists on the ground, the back of its neck exposed. “Mercy, sovereign, for your prisoner. I beg mercy.”

Alveré raised a silver eyebrow, and gazed down at R for a moment before saying softly, “Kiss my foot.”

Enjolras couldn’t look away as R arched forward to press its lips to the toe of Alveré’s pale grey boot.

There was a crack as Alveré kicked R away with enough force to send it tumbling backwards, almost off the dais. Enjolras stared as R touched its fingers to its jaw, where the skin was already reddening. The parting of its lips was red too – it had probably bitten its tongue or the inside of its cheek by accident. But it just crawled back to its previous position. “I beg mercy, sovereign,” it said again.

“For what purpose do you want hum?” Alveré asked coolly.

“I…” R lifted its head and looked over at Enjolras, whose stomach clenched. He refused to look away though, and R tilted its head a fraction, expression unreadable. R looked more and more out of place the longer Enjolras stared – if ever a faery could be ugly, this one surely was. Mutts were never as beautiful as pure fey anyway, but this one’s jaw was too large, lips too small, nose crooked, brow thick, eyes…the eyes were the only part of its face worth notice. Whatever colour they were, they were dark and bright and serious. “I think there is the potential for inspiration in hum, sovereign.”

“You are an artisan?” Alveré raised an eyebrow.

“Can one be an artisan if they produce no art?” R asked wryly, dipping its head again. There was a susurration from the assembled court behind it – the faintest of faery laughter.

Alveré moved a finger, and Enjolras’ upper body jerked forward, his head slamming into the dais as a guard shoved him down with a heavy foot between his shoulder blades. The impact sent his head spinning, pain bursting through his skull. The other guard moved, and Enjolras hissed as vae stood on his fingers, digging vaes heel in hard. The pain was white hot, and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and focused on not crying out.

Identical siblings moving on the orders of their sovereign, just like the Lark twins. The Pale Court favoured those who shared a single birth, positions of importance handed to those who would lend symmetry to the station. These two shone silver and pale green, black eyes in narrow faces with no pity to speak of.

Enjolras squirmed, breathing heavily, and glared across the dais at Alveré and R, neither of whom seemed to have moved. “Mercy, sovereign,” R said again, begging.

Alveré appeared unimpressed, but even the sovereign was bound to the laws of the court. “Are there any here who dispute the plea?”

“I do.”

As the guards stepped away, Enjolras pulled himself up (head pounding, numb fingers burning if he moved them) to look at the owner of the voice – an elf, green-skinned and tall with darker green tattoos rippling over vaes skin.

“Your will, sovereign?” R asked, not lifting its head.

Alveré made a bored gesture. “Hand to hand combat, to submission.”

R rose, shedding its coat as it left the dais to meet the nameless elf in the space that the court had created, shifting away to give the sovereign the best view. Enjolras flexed the fingers the guard had trodden on, and stared as they circled each other for a moment, both of them crouching like animals. Wolves, or cats, wild and vicious.

Enjolras wasn’t sure which of them made the first move – they were too fast for him to keep track. Goosebumps rose on his arms as the sound of fists connecting with skin echoed through the hall. R and the elf both grunted and hissed in pain at the contact, but both stayed close, lashing out faster and faster, turning in circles and weaving back and forth to avoid further blows. It was a dance as much as a duel, Enjolras saw, his chest tight.

The outcome of this fight would decide his fate. Die here in the Hall of Whispers, or live as R’s slave. He wasn’t sure which was the more frightening prospect.

R snarled, and the elf hissed in response, both of them pausing for a moment to square off at each other, knuckles bruised and eyes narrowed. The elf rushed first, but R danced aside and caught vaes arm, twisting vaer in a circle before somehow managing to flip vaer right over. The sound of the elf’s back hitting the floor almost made Enjolras wince, and the elf gasped in pain. R struck its heel into each of vaes thighs before leaning over vaer and planting a foot on vaes throat.

“Yield,” it said in a low voice. The elf bared vaes teeth and swung a fist. R caught it and twisted it viciously before slamming it into the floor, making the elf suck in a pained hiss. “Yield,” R growled. The elf said nothing, and R drew back its arm and punched vaer in the face. At the sound of impact, Enjolras flinched. The elf spat green blood onto the floor and spoke in a cracked voice.

“Conceded.”

R stepped away immediately and left the elf behind to climb the dais again, kneeling in front of Alveré in silence.

Alveré was motionless, still in the way only the fey could be still, and Enjolras’ breath came in shallow puffs as they all waited. Finally, Alveré spoke. “You understand the terms of taking the changeling?”

“I do, sovereign.”

Enjolras didn’t, but apparently he didn’t matter anymore. If he ever had.

“Take the changeling away.” Alveré flicked one hand in Enjolras’ direction carelessly. “In the meantime – entertainer. Entertain us.”

R rose, grinning, and Enjolras grunted as he was wrenched to his feet by the guards and wheeled around, shoved back behind the dais to where he’d been kept before being led out. “What’s going on?” He tried to demand, but it came out more as a plea. All he got was a sharp slap to his face in answer.

“Shut up, changeling.”

“Have you heard of this mutt before?” the other guard asked suspiciously. “This ‘R’?”

“No. Solitary artisan…”

“…and a capable fighter,” vae finished, casting Enjolras a cold look. “With a taste for breakable things.”

Enjolras looked down, panic beginning to creep under his skin. The guard who had slapped him laughed. “Maybe it wants a toy.”

They took him into the cell he’d been imprisoned in earlier (or thought he had – Enjolras couldn’t remember how they’d come here. He could remember the Hall of Whispers, but everything between there and here was indistinct) and one of them kicked the backs of his knees. They buckled, and Enjolras bit back a cry of pain as they hit the floor.

“What would you do with a slave like this?” the guard who had called him breakable asked, as casual as if vae was asking vaes friend whether vae preferred wine to mead.

“Any slave?” the other asked. “Or this one?”

“This one.”

Enjolras stared at the floor and tried to keep his breathing steady as they untied his arms from the staff.

“Beat hum,” the one on his right decided. “Hear that, changeling?” Vae leaned close and Enjolras turned his face away slightly as vae whispered in his ear. “If you were mine, I’d teach you some respect. I’d whip you raw and fuck you unconscious. And maybe pass you around to a few of my friends to make sure the message really sank in.”

“Probably why the entertainer wants hum.” The other guard’s long fingers rippled; a fey shrug. “What else is a changeling good for?”

Enjolras clenched his jaw and tried desperately to focus on the floor, smooth and grey and hard under his knees and shins. The guard on his right laughed, and Enjolras’ arms were freed suddenly, the staff lifted away. He pulled his arms close to his body and rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling the stretch and ache in his shoulders. 

The guard who had been on his left went out of the room, and Enjolras dropped his arms to his sides as the other one came up behind him. “You’d better behave now, changeling,” vae said. “You’re that mutt’s property now. It can do whatever it likes with you. Personally, I’d make you pay for your murder with blood and tears and screams, but who knows. Perhaps it just wants to savour you at its leisure. Artisans have strange tastes, after all.”

Enjolras tried to stand as still as he could, but the panic had pooled in his stomach and turned to nausea. A sharp finger ran down his spine, and he jerked away, pretending his fear was anger as he turned on the guard and bared his teeth. “Don’t touch me.”

Vae just laughed as the other guard returned with a bowl of water. “I wish I could be there.”

Enjolras tuned them out as much as he could, breathing shallow and skin cold as he washed his face as instructed and stood again to be led out. His crime was worthy of torture, and he had tried to resign himself to it as soon as he’d been captured, but it was much harder than he could have ever imagined.

He’d been raised in the safety of Lamarque’s meadow, isolated from the rest of Faerie and the mortal realms. He’d never been truly hurt before his capture. He’d never known pain, or unwelcome advances, or slavery. Lamarque had educated him as best vae could, but nothing could have prepared Enjolras for the realities of fey cruelty. For pale faces so similar to Lamarque’s, but with none of vaes kindness and humour.

When he was pushed back onto the dais, the Hall of Whispers seemed to spin in front of him, the ground below him tipping sideways to make him stagger. One of the guards shoved him away, and he held his breath to stop himself hyperventilating. R was in front of the dais, juggling coloured fire and balls of light, lines of flame streaming around it in shapes Enjolras might have once found beautiful.

A guard kicked his legs out from under him, and the sudden pain of the fall on already bruised knees made Enjolras squeeze his eyes shut to keep back tears. He knelt in silence, waiting for the entertainment to end. R would take him away when it was finished, he understood, trying not to shiver.

Not a week ago, he had been in Lamarque’s meadow, the two of them reading and talking, peaceful and undisturbed. Now he was completely alone, unprotected and at the mercy of a faery entertainer, who could do whatever it wanted with its new slave.

Enjolras imagined torture, pain inflicted with the fire R so deftly controlled, with blades, with the brute strength it obviously possessed. Would Enjolras be made to warm its bed? Service its friends? Plenty of fey considered torture an art form, and R was an _artisan_.

 

Grantaire juggled fire, coloured it with murmured spells and coaxed it into beautiful shapes. Ey blew a flower of flame to a fire elemental and drew circles and spirals on the floor with eir toes. They burst into flame at a word, and the applause was such a relief that Grantaire could have wept.

Ey was so stupid. So _stupid_ to beg mercy for a murderous changeling in the Hall of Whispers. Sweat beaded on eir forehead as ey glanced around and checked the exits, the number of guards, the little gatherings of faeries who had wanted to see the changeling pay for hus crime. Grantaire had only heard about the murder of the Pale Court’s favourite assassins that morning.

Thank the earth, wind, and seas for Alveré’s strict adherence to the traditional laws of the courts. Grantaire could still hardly believe ey’d been so foolish. Movement on the dais drew eir attention as ey swept fire up and up towards the soaring arches above. When ey got the chance, ey glanced over and saw the changeling kneeling between two guards. Hu was still, head bowed, wide eyes fixed on the floor in front of hum.

Poor changeling. Grantaire finished eir show with an illusion, replacing the ceiling with a vision of the open sky, pale grey clouds against shining silver heavens, a homage to the Pale Court itself. The applause was loud, but Grantaire wasn’t fooled – ey’d made enemies today. The elf ey’d defeated in order to gain the changeling was popular, and vae would have plenty of friends more than willing to curry favour with the capture and killing of a solitary entertainer.

Better to avoid this court for a while, Grantaire decided, bowing low as ey accepted Alveré’s judgement concerning payment – since ey’d won a slave, ey would have no need of coin today. Grantaire hardly cared as long as ey was allowed to leave alive. The changeling came when Grantaire beckoned, and followed when Grantaire walked through the hall and outside into the gardens.

The changeling was as beautiful up close as hu had been from afar. Grantaire looked at hum as they walked, studying what ey’d saved. The changeling had appeared smaller at a distance, but up close hu would have been a little taller than Grantaire were it not for eir horns. Hus hair was a long tangle of gold, flowing loose and a little curly past hus shoulders. Hus face was a little sun-kissed, freckles across hus nose and cheeks, though the skin below was ashen, and hu bore the bruises and cuts of a recent beating. Were hu not a changeling, Grantaire would have thought hum to possess at least a little faery blood. Hu was certainly more beautiful than most humans Grantaire had met, and even scared and shocked as hu had to be, hu moved gracefully.

Grantaire was assessing hum, ey realised, and looked away with a jolt in eir stomach. All this time, and ey still hadn’t broken those habits. At least ey hadn’t priced hum, ey supposed, the thought alone making em sick.

“Here,” Grantaire said as they entered the hedge maze, silver-lined leaves rustling despite the lack of a breeze. The changeling looked at em, and Grantaire shrugged off eir coat and held it out. The changeling had been dressed for execution in white, in short trousers and a shirt that was basically a square with holes in it for the arms and head. Up close, Grantaire could see hu was trembling. “Here,” ey said again, waiting for the changeling to take the coat and put it on. “Good.” Grantaire smiled, but hu only shrunk away.

Grantaire could hardly blame hum.

“Come on,” ey said softly, motioning for the changeling to keep following. “We need to leave.” Before someone from the court came after them. But the hedge maze kept its path, and they found the Gate with no problems. The Gatekeeper was waiting, and Grantaire passed the small gargoyle two coins and put eir hand between the changeling’s shoulder blades to encourage hum through the arch. Ey didn’t miss the way the changeling flinched.

They emerged in Paris, at the end of an alley. Grantaire whispered, “Sorry,” before taking the changeling’s arm and hurrying hum out of the end and up the street to eir house. The changeling’s breathing was fast and shallow, hus eyes glazed and scared as hu looked around as much as hu could before Grantaire hustled hum inside. Eir house was a narrow dwelling hidden from humans, wedged between two apartment buildings. Six floors with space for two rooms on each, and Grantaire lived in the attic. Ey’d always preferred a good vantage point.

The changeling shrank against the wall as soon as they were inside, and Grantaire sighed. A _slave_. How could ey have done this? What had ey even been thinking?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” ey said quietly. “I swear it. I’m sorry for scaring you just now, but I needed to get us inside. What’s your name?”

The changeling was still shaking, hus hands clenched tight in the fabric of Grantaire’s brown coat. “Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeated. A beautiful name for a beautiful human. “I’m Grantaire, or R if you prefer. Not sir, not master, not owner. Alright?”

Enjolras nodded, a slow jerk of hus head. Clearly unconvinced, but Grantaire would take what ey could get. “You’re a human?” ey checked. “Just human?” Enjolras nodded again, more sure this time. “Okay, okay, that’s fine.” A thought occurred, and Grantaire squinted. “Do you know anything about human customs? They have some animal preferences, they’re a little…”

“I’m –” Enjolras’ voice whispered, and hu cleared hus throat. “I’m male, I’m not just human.”

“Okay.” Grantaire tried to make eir smile reassuring. “So…he, him, his?” At Enjolras’ nod, ey nodded as well. “No problem. I’ve lived with humans, I’m used to the animal divisions.” Ey still thought it was bizarre, but there was no need for Enjolras to know that. “I’m not an it, by the way. Mutt doesn’t mean less than animal.”

Enjolras’ lips parted, and he bit the lower one for a moment before asking, “So what…?”

“Ey, em, eir.” Enjolras’ expression cleared and he nodded, so Grantaire assumed he’d at least heard of them before. “Simple, easy to remember.” Ey jerked eir head for Enjolras to follow. “Let me show you around.”

Enjolras stayed silent as Grantaire gave him the tour, and ey was suddenly aware of what a mess eir house really was. The kitchen was full of dirty crockery, the counters covered in sticky patches where ey’d spilt food or drink and not bothered to clean it up. There were cobwebs in the corners, thick dust on many surfaces, clutter up the stairs, making the narrow steps even harder to navigate. Ey warned Enjolras out of the cellar – there were traps and dangerous old pieces of junk down there, and the last thing either of them wanted was Enjolras losing a limb or an eye or his sanity.

Grantaire hadn’t really noticed how many books ey’d collected till ey winced at the tottering piles and dusty heaps. Ey’d run out of shelves years ago, so now stacks of books spilt across the floor and leaned against the walls.

When Grantaire had first taken the house, ey’d slept on a camp bed, and ey found it on the fifth floor. Together, ey and Enjolras shifted piles of books aside to make room for it to fold out, and Grantaire gestured to it apologetically. “I’ll get you something better as soon as I can. And clothes of your own. And ointment for your injuries.”

Enjolras wouldn’t even look em in the eye, and Grantaire could hardly blame him. A slave. After everything ey’d seen, after _Bamatabois_ , and eir own servitude, ey’d claimed a slave. A dangerous killing slave who would doubtless bring no end of strife to eir doorstep. Grantaire muttered under eir breath as ey worked up in eir room, cursing eir own stupidity.

Enjolras had been one of Lamarque’s, ey remembered. The reclusive elf had taken changelings in before, but Grantaire had never heard what became of them. Lamarque’s name had only ever come up in relation to vaes store of knowledge, and vaes presumably vast libraries. Grantaire had always assumed the changelings were taken on to be assistants, or maybe toys.

Having seen Enjolras, ey really hoped not. Though it was hardly eir business.

Still.

Grantaire hurled a curse catcher against the wall and wrapped eir hands around eir horns, pulling eir head down. Surely, ey hadn’t done this for Enjolras’ pretty face? Even ey couldn’t be so foolish.

Downstairs, Enjolras was moving, the camp bed’s creaking audible even from up in Grantaire’s attic. Ey held back a groan and crouched down on the floor. Whatever eir reason for saving the changeling, they were stuck together now. With both of them having caught the Pale Court’s eye, there would be no safe retreat.

 

Despite Grantaire’s vow that ey wouldn’t hurt him, Enjolras stole a knife from the kitchen on his first night and kept it close to hand while he tried to sleep. The room was small, most of the space on the fifth floor being taken up by the bathroom, and the bed creaked whenever Enjolras so much as twitched, but at least there was plenty of reading material. The books were the only thing Enjolras liked about the house. There were chests and drawers and boxes of other things too – art supplies and magic equipment – but mostly, his prison overflowed with books.

It reminded him a little of Lamarque’s house; beautiful wooden rooms filled with artefacts of interest, shelves and shelves of books along almost every wall. The outside had been covered in grass, tinted windows looking out onto the meadow proper, the wide stretch of tall grass and wildflowers, trees stretching high against the sky, the apple orchard just visible from the front door.

The orchard had burned as Enjolras ran through it, the bark twisting and seeming to shriek in agony as the flames consumed the wood and leaves and fruit. Everything had burned. Dwellings made of wood and paper and grass burned easily, he’d learned. Faeries died no matter how much they knew, or how old they were.

Lamarque had been more knowledgeable than any elf living, almost a thousand years old. One of the Lark twins had pushed a long, thin spear through Lamarque’s throat, and vaes long life had ended in an instant, the laughter of the twins echoing against the crackle of flames.

Enjolras dreamed of it that night, and every night following. Grantaire was quiet and polite and kind, more than willing to keep eir distance. When they met in the kitchen or on the stairs, ey would give Enjolras a small smile, and pretend not to notice him slipping out. Because even when a week had passed, and then another, Enjolras still slept with the knife close, and startled awake with his heart in his throat if he heard Grantaire come downstairs in the night.

There was no escape from his new prison. Every window was spelled to scream if opened or broken, and the doors leading outside were similarly enchanted. Grantaire had stressed that it was for their protection, but there was no avoiding the fact that it kept them imprisoned as well. And even if he could escape, what would he do? The meadow was gone, Lamarque was dead, and Enjolras had never thought of the future. He’d been such a fool. 

Grantaire never left the house, not even for food. Ey had vast stores in two cold boxes and a huge pantry, and a room on the third floor which served as a garden, vegetables coaxed up from soil stolen from Faerie. Between that and an enchanted fruit bowl, Enjolras was served well enough. There was human food in the cold boxes, but a lot of it consisted of animal meat, and Enjolras couldn’t overcome his revulsion even for the sake of his curiosity.

Everything he knew about the mortal realms, Lamarque had taught him. One day, vae had promised, Enjolras’ education would be complete and he could rejoin his own people, living as a human in the mortal realms. But as he watched the world outside from the windows of Grantaire’s house, he wondered whether he would actually be able to survive alone out there. The front windows looked onto a street of apartments above shops and cafés, the back onto a similar road, but with a better view. They were on a hill, and from the back Enjolras could see more of the city. He knew it was Paris from the view of the Sacré Cœur and the Eiffel Tower, but he was more interested in the people. Lamarque had told him so much, but it seemed that vae had only grazed the surface where modern human living was concerned.

If Lamarque hadn’t been killed…

Enjolras sat in front of the windows with the best views, second for the front windows and fourth for the back ones, and watched the people. People like _him_. He watched them for hours, imagining being one of them. If he’d never been taken by faeries, what sort of life would he have?

He watched the men as closely as he could. These were his real brothers, these busy creatures with short hair, shoes, swift walks. Enjolras watched the women, comparing, and pushed down on a knot of worry in his chest. Lamarque had brought him up as a human male. How disappointed would vae be to hear Enjolras’ thoughts now?

(Because the women were more eye-catching. There was more variety among them, in their dress and hair and the colours they wore. They were the ones Enjolras wanted to emulate, while the men were the ones he wanted to lie with.)

Grantaire had given him clothes; items that had probably belonged to em if the style and shape was anything to go by. Plain shirts and trousers with dark, dull colours that hung on Enjolras’ thinner frame and left his wrists and ankles bare. He imagined wearing brighter garments, like the ones the women in the streets wore. Bold patterns and vibrant colours, splendid flowing shapes dancing down the roads.

His shame drove him away from the windows, and he turned his attention to the books instead, simply to fill the time. Almost by accident, Enjolras began to organise them, going through them and sorting them into piles based on genre, on whether they were in a language he could read, on size. It was calming, and it reminded him of working with Lamarque, who had told him over and over again that humans were one of the strongest races of beings known. Resilient and hardy, able to survive almost anything.

He’d survived losing his home, and losing Lamarque. He could survive imprisonment and the constantly looming threat of attack. He still hadn’t forgotten how easily Grantaire had defeated the elf warrior in the Hall of Whispers. Enjolras would be no match for him in a fight.

But Grantaire never made so much as a move towards him. A week passed, then another, and another, and still Grantaire kept eir distance and offered Enjolras only small sad smiles. Enjolras still jerked awake if he heard footsteps in the night, but he no longer reached immediately for his knife, and often fell asleep again before Grantaire was even back in eir room.

He had been imprisoned for four weeks when he came into the kitchen and found Grantaire. Ey nodded, and smiled when Enjolras continued in instead of backing out again as he always had before. Still, ey didn’t speak, and Enjolras watched em out of the corner of his eye as he reached to get a cup from a cupboard and went to the sink to fill it with water.

Grantaire wasn’t even looking at him, eyes low as ey peeled an orange with a small, sharp knife. It glinted in the light from the window, but Enjolras wasn’t afraid.

He wasn’t afraid.

“Grantaire?”

He had to force himself not to flinch when Grantaire’s head snapped up, bright, dark eyes fixing on him immediately. “Yes?”

A deep breath would give away his nerves, so Enjolras didn’t take one. “Will you free me?”

Grantaire’s hands stilled, eir lips parting in surprise. “Free you?”

Enjolras nodded, heart thudding against his ribs. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me, and you haven’t told or asked me to do anything. You’re not…you don’t treat me like a slave.”

Grantaire winced and ducked eir head, curls shifting between his horns. “I wouldn’t, I won’t.”

“You don’t want me as a slave.” Enjolras was cold, the way he had been when he’d started following the Lark twins. Dispossessed, as though he was standing outside his own body. He knew before it happened that Grantaire would shake eir head, agreeing. “So free me.”

“No.”

Heat had returned when he’d found Lamarque’s murderers. It was the same now, his skin burning, blood singing in his ears. “Why?” he demanded.

“It’s not safe.” Grantaire sighed and put the orange and the knife aside, oblivious to the rage Enjolras was containing. “If I relinquish my claim on you, I might as well cut your throat here.” Despite himself, Enjolras shifted back, the knife on the counter too close to Grantaire’s hand for comfort. Grantaire saw and sighed again. “You don’t understand what I’d be doing if I freed you. You’re hardly unknown. News would get out, and they’d hunt you down like an animal, and they’d…” Ey slashed eir hand through the air, cutting emself off, and pinched the bridge of eir nose. “They’d do more than kill you, changeling. You killed two Pale Court assassins – they’d hurt you first. I can’t let you walk out into that. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras curled his hands into fists. “Then what do you want from me?” he snapped. “Why did you save me if you didn’t want me?”

Grantaire gave him a helpless look and shook eir head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t…I don’t know. As for what I want from you – I just want you to be happy. Comfortable at least, as much as you can be here. I don’t want to keep you locked up like a prisoner, but there aren’t any other options –”

Enjolras slammed his hand down on the counter, cutting em off. Grantaire jumped at the bang, and the last of Enjolras’ trepidation vanished. “There are always other options,” he insisted, furious. “You can’t just keep me here forever!”

“Do you not understand what would happen if you left?” Grantaire rallied emself, planting eir feet and turning to face him properly. “They would tear you to pieces, Enjolras.”

“They’d have to catch me first.”

Grantaire gaped, incredulous. “Are you – you’re serious, you ignorant…you’ve never even been in the mortal realms before this, have you? How can you expect to outrun practiced hunters?”

Enjolras drew himself up and fixed Grantaire with a blistering glare that actually made Grantaire frown. “It wouldn’t be the first time I outwitted murderers,” he reminded em, and stalked out. He could have gone for the knife, but Grantaire had been closer, and he hadn’t forgotten the way Grantaire had fought in the Hall of Whispers.

His words were stronger than his abilities. Enjolras knew he had been lucky with the Lark twins, and they had been caught by surprise. Grantaire was out of his league, so Enjolras put any ideas of attacking em aside.

That night, he donned every item of clothing Grantaire had given him and filled a bag with food from the kitchen. There were odd-looking ornaments hung in front of the windows and doors, cages of crossed sticks wound about with coloured string and thread, circular and diamond frames filled with webs of yarn. Grantaire had begun adding them the day after ey had brought Enjolras here. If they were meant to keep Enjolras in, he would find out now.

The knife he had kept under his pillow was in his hand, another tied to a belt loop, naked steel against his thigh. His heart thundered as he took a pan from the sink and eyed up the window above the sink. Every sound echoed in his ears as he clambered onto the counter, hefted the pan in his hand. A final hesitation, a drawn breath, and then he slammed it forward into the glass.

He had been prepared for a scream of a broken alarm, but it still make him cry out in shock and slip backwards. He only just landed on his feet, and he had to jump back up onto the counter and swing the pan again to break more of the glass out of the way. If Grantaire was shouting upstairs, Enjolras couldn’t hear em over the ear-splitting shrieks.

It was the panic of the Lark Twins storming into the meadow all over again, and fear raced through Enjolras’ veins like poison. He hauled himself through the window and started to run as soon as his feet touched the ground on the other side, the road cold under his bare feet.

Foreign laughter, the only other faeries he had ever seen, Lamarque telling him, ordering him to hide, the flicker of flames from outside, the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood –

Enjolras sobbed as he ran, sprinting as hard as he could, bag of food sacrificed for increased speed. The streets were lit by bright electric lights, but all he could see was fire, trees burning and screaming as he fled through the orchard, Lamarque’s body utterly still on the floor of their home, his home, his _home_.

Someone shouted his name, and Enjolras lashed out with the knife, sensing someone behind him. Grantaire ducked and tackled him to the ground, slamming the knife from his hand. When Enjolras tried to grab at the one he’d tied to his trousers, Grantaire pinned his wrist and took that as well.

“Yield.”

Enjolras twisted under em, seeing elven paleness for a moment in place of Grantaire’s face and dark horns. “Get off me!”

Grantaire released him immediately, sinking back in a crouch as Enjolras scrambled to his feet, heaving gulps of air as he tried to stop crying. Grantaire looked up at him and spread his arms, showing emself. Ey wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just a pair of thin, loose trousers. No weapons, no tricks.

“Let me go.” Enjolras’ voice shook, the chill of the air making him shiver.

“To go where?” Grantaire asked, quieter. “Lamarque is gone, you have no friends or allies, no bolthole, no help offered. Save mine.”

“You offer me help?” Enjolras took half a step back, but Grantaire didn’t move.

“I offer you sanctuary until this mess blows over. It isn’t safe out here for you, Enjolras.”

“These are the mortal realms.” Where he belonged.

“Plenty of faeries live in the mortal realms. You have no idea how to hide yourself, and my house is being watched. We need to go back. I can’t protect you if you fight me.” Ey glanced around. “Enjolras, please.”

“I don’t want to be –”

“Cooped up and trapped, I know. We’ll figure something out, I swear, but please, we need to get back.”

If it was an act, it was convincing. Enjolras found himself following Grantaire’s gaze. The street appeared empty, but the hairs on the back of his neck were rising. A light further up the hill flickered, and Enjolras retraced his half-step from earlier, and took another, and another.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, rising to eir feet and taking Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras jumped at the contact, but Grantaire was already pulling him along, running again. Enjolras was sweating by the time they got back, out of breath and wobbly-kneed. Grantaire had followed him out of the broken window, he realised – they both had cuts along their arms and legs. Now that the rush of his attempted escape was fading, the pain was seeping in.

Grantaire sighed and traced a few symbols onto the wall around the window, and led Enjolras around to the front. “There are three Pale Court lackeys casting at my house,” ey told him as they went inside. “And about four solitaries joining in. The faery who brings Alveré our heads will have the Pale Court’s favour, and it might be that the Lark twins had friends who wouldn’t be averse to our deaths.”

Enjolras’ heart sank as Grantaire locked and bolted the door behind them. It was darker inside the house, walls and shadows pressing in, pressing down. Enjolras already missed the open sky above him, and the chill of the outside air. “Why don’t they band together?” he made himself ask.

“Court faeries are snobs, changeling. And solitaries are mistrustful.”

“You’re a solitary.”

“And I can count the number of people I really trust on two hands and have fingers left over.” Grantaire jerked eir head, and Enjolras followed em through to the kitchen. “You’d end up a plaything whoever caught you. Lamarque ever tell you what happens to lone faeries who wind up as toys?”

“Torture,” Enjolras said, softer than he’d intended.

Grantaire nodded, sighing again as they came to the kitchen and ey surveyed the damage. “Alveré would give you to the Pale Court’s artisans. You’d be made example of. Me as well.” Ey wrenched the door off a cupboard – Enjolras flinched at the noise – and leaned it on the windowsill, covering the broken glass. “Boundary,” ey said, narrowing eir eyes at it. The hairs on the backs of Enjolras’ arms rose, something in the air crackling over his skin. “As I make you, none can break you,” Grantaire continued in a low voice, pressing eir hand to the wood. “Stay out, stay gone, stay away.” Ey traced a shape on the wood and stepped back.

Enjolras moved away to keep the distance between them, and Grantaire frowned. “Do you know what kind of torture you’d get, having done what you did?” Enjolras shook his head. “I’ve got a book you should read. And stories I could tell, but that’s best left for daylight. Go back to bed, changeling.”

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire untied the cord cage from above the broken window and shook it.

“I’ll remake this, and keep a watch.”

Enjolras hesitated as Grantaire sank down to sit on the floor opposite the window, already unwinding yarn from the odd frame of sticks. “What are those?”

“These? Curse catchers. Extra security. We’d have broken windows and bad luck and vermin and all sorts of charming gifts from our friends outside if not for these little things.” Ey smiled, tired but kind, and Enjolras took a breath before going to sit beside him.

“Will you teach me how to make them?” Sacred words, words he’d said thousands of times to Lamarque. _Show me, teach me, tell me_.

For a moment, Grantaire looked as though ey might refuse, but then ey nodded and pointed to the cupboard under the sink. “There’s more sticks and string in there. You copy what I do, okay?”

Enjolras nodded. The kitchen was filled with the white-blue glow from the streetlamps outside, and neither of them moved to turn on the light inside. Everything was in shadow this way, Grantaire’s fingers steady and certain in the gloom, showing Enjolras slowly how to bind the sticks together either to make a star for a cage or a frame for a web.

The string was rough against Enjolras’ fingers, the sticks dry and brittle, slipping whenever he tried to fix them in place. But Grantaire never laughed or scoffed, only pointed out where he’d gone wrong and showed him how to fix it with sticks and string of eir own. They were surrounded by poorly-made curse catchers by the time the day began to dawn, pale grey light creeping into the kitchen and illuminating their work.

“Not bad.” Grantaire gave him a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach eir eyes. “I won’t be hanging them up any time soon, but they’re serviceable as decorations.”

Enjolras bristled. “What’s wrong with them?”

Grantaire handed him the one ey’d fixed and improved to hang back up in front of the broken window. “See if you can tell what the difference is.”

Enjolras frowned, but studied them. “They look different.”

“Beyond that.”

Enjolras held one in each hand. Grantaire’s was better made, but he felt that wasn’t the answer either. They weighed about the same, but when Enjolras lifted Grantaire’s to his face to smell it, something was different. He lifted his own, and turned his face from one to the other, trying to pinpoint what it was. They smelled the same, but there was something in the air around Grantaire’s, an aura of tingling magic.

“Yours is spelled,” he said, and Grantaire smiled. “When did you do that?”

“While I was making it. The form is only part of the final product. Lamarque didn’t teach you spellcraft?”

“I’m a changeling.” Enjolras frowned and handed Grantaire’s cord cage back to em. “Humans have no aptitude for magic.” Words Lamarque had repeated time and again, etched into Enjolras’ brain. He was human. He had many gifts by right of his birth, but magic was not one of them. Mortal beings were poorly suited to the arcane.

But Grantaire just snorted. “Said who? Lamarque? How many humans did vae even meet?”

“Vae was over nine hundred and fifty years old,” Enjolras snapped, but Grantaire just shrugged.

“Humans can work magic if they want. They have a different style, most times, but the power’s there. Some of them are better than most faeries I’ve met. You could enchant that cage easily enough if you wanted.”

Enjolras blinked, looking down at his unstable curse catcher. “I could?”

“Obviously it’d take a while, and it’d be a very weak spell, but everything improves with practice.” Grantaire’s voice softened. “I’ll teach you if you like.”

“I don’t want to learn magic.” Enjolras let the cord cage roll from his hands and fall to pieces on the floor “I want to be free.”

Grantaire sighed and rose to eir feet, a horned silhouette in the light shining from the unbroken side of the window. “Live long enough, and you will be. But you’ve got to stay safe to live, and safety is inside this house, not out.” Ey turned and hung eir curse catcher in front of the window. It swung in the breeze created by Grantaire’s body as ey swept out of the kitchen, leaving Enjolras alone on the floor.

 

 _Enjolras_. Grantaire mouthed the name to emself like something sweet and stolen, rarely allowing emself the pleasure of shaping the word. ‘Changeling’ was a safer name, or ‘human’. Never slave. And seldom Enjolras.

Avoiding the name did nothing to help Grantaire with the person himself. Enjolras was everywhere, it seemed. Grantaire paced eir room like a caged animal, checking and checking and rechecking the wards and bounds on the house, making curse catchers for every window, locking every mirror tight shut against intrusion or invasion.

As if eir sanctuary hadn’t already been invaded.

It had taken two days for Grantaire to craft a sheet of faerie glass, getting it as clear as ey could. It wound up with a faint purple tint, but ey pushed it into place and spelled it shut, and though the wards in that part of eir web had to be recrafted, it was better than the gap that had been there before. Grantaire couldn’t look at it without thinking of Enjolras.

The books were being organised, and the garden was watered regularly. Grantaire stole through rooms that had long lain dusty and cluttered, finding them cleaned and tidied. It wasn’t just eir house anymore. Enjolras was leaving his mark everywhere he went, and Grantaire…

Lit black candles and daubed the wax on eir forehead, begging eir stupid heart not to go there. Slept on the floor to try and earth eir body, made a poppet of emself and stuck a pin in its heart, inhaled dust bought from the Market and drifted in drugged apathy.

Ey came back to emself with an ache in eir chest, eyes stinging from the want to see Enjolras. Grantaire’s least favourite rug was sacrificed to eir terrified frustration, torn to ribbons and hurled into the fire downstairs.

And behind everything lurked the nagging, ever-present question of why. _Why_ had Grantaire saved a changeling and put emself in danger? They wouldn’t be able to stay inside forever. Enjolras’ terrifying attempt at escape had proven how desperate he was to get outside. Grantaire’s garden would go into its winter phase soon enough, and Enjolras didn’t eat the human food in the freezers. They could live off human food if Grantaire bought it in Paris, but faery coin would be needed in the end. Ey would have to go to Market, and Enjolras would probably have to come with em.

 _Why_ had ey begged mercy and taken Enjolras from the Pale Court?

The inspiration line had come to em from nowhere, and it was barely true. Enjolras was…too much, almost, to break through Grantaire’s block. It was like being starved for years and then shown a banquet. Grantaire hadn’t created anything but illusions for decades, and now ey had something inspiring in eir life, all ey wanted to do was watch it.

To be able to observe Enjolras without restraint, to let eir eyes linger on his hair, his neck, the curve of his spine and the lines of his limbs…perhaps to be allowed to pose him, Grantaire’s hands ugly against Enjolras’ shoulders, his hips, the delicate sweep of his wrists and the heels of his hands.

Dreams, dreams. Foolish and unattainable.

What was ey going to do?

“What are you going to do with me?” Enjolras asked em in the kitchen, sunlight pooling gold and pink on the floor through the mismatched windows, lapping at his bare feet. Grantaire tore eir gaze away and hesitated before answering.

“What do you mean?”

“You said…” Enjolras rallied himself, hands and eyes on the counter rather than Grantaire (but who would willingly look at Grantaire?). “You said we were in danger; that we couldn’t go outside. Are we just going to stay in here forever?”

 _We_. Grantaire sighed and wrapped a hand around one of eir horns, pulling eir head down. “I don’t know,” ey admitted. “I wasn’t exactly planning any of this.”

“Are you going to keep me forever?”

Grantaire looked at him, taking the opportunity to study Enjolras while ey could. Turned sideways and looking down at the counter, a plate of cut fruit in front of him, he was sun-kissed and beautiful. What Grantaire wouldn’t give to go to him and curl a hand around the back of his neck, kiss his temple, hold him close. “No,” ey said. “I won’t keep you. Not for any longer than I have to.”

“How long will that be?”

 _Years_. “It depends on a few things. The Pale Court, for one. How soon they find another favourite assassin, how loved the Lark twins were…how I behave now I’ve done this.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras looked at em, and Grantaire turned away, moving out of the sunlight.

“I mean it depends. It’s a tricky situation. We’ll just have to move slowly.” Stars, what was ey going to do when ey needed to start entertaining again? Take Enjolras along as eir assistant? Not a bad idea, but that level of comfort was a long way off. 

“No one’s attacked us yet,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire curled eir lip.

“You can thank my spells and reputation for that, changeling.”

“Reputation?”

“You’ve seen me fight.” Grantaire moved past him and went to the freezer for more bread. “There’s my reputation.”

Enjolras was silent while Grantaire set the bread in the sun to defrost. “You fight very well.”

“I fight like a brute.” The last thing Grantaire wanted was Enjolras idolising em for that. Or idolising em at all, come to that. “I hate fighting.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because you fight or die.” And how many times had ey wished for the second option? Enjolras leaned back against the counter, watching em, and Grantaire avoided his gaze, crouching down on the floor to put some distance between them.

“Where did you learn to fight like that then?”

Questions, questions. “Market, where else? You ever been there?”

“We never…Lamarque never needed anything.” Slowly, Enjolras sat down as well, bringing his plate of food to the floor. Grantaire’s clothes didn’t suit him at all, ey realised suddenly. They would need to go shopping. “I’ve never been to the mortal realms,” Enjolras confessed, shadow sharp against the floorboards as he ducked his head. “I’ve barely been in Faerie.”

“It’s not that special,” Grantaire tried, hoping to offer a little comfort. From Enjolras’ scowl, it didn’t seem to have worked.

“Have you been to lots of places?”

Grantaire considered it. “I suppose so. I’ve passed through lots of places. Not too much in the mortal world though. France and China, that’s it.”

“Where have you been in Faerie?”

Such innocent curiosity. And Grantaire wouldn’t have to tell him everything – only the places, not why ey was there at the time. “I come from the Woods Between,” ey said after a moment. “That’s where most mutts are dumped.” Abandoned to either die or struggle on, hunting in packs that fell apart as fast as they formed. Killing each other over rabbit carcasses and fire.

Grantaire didn’t leave out the grisly details, watching Enjolras’ face as ey described a brutal few days where the nearby fiefdoms and territories had banded together and hunted the mongrels through the Woods with hounds and horns. Grantaire hadn’t slept for nearly four days, and the Woods had been quiet and haunted after that, corpses picked by wolves and bears. Ey didn’t tell Enjolras that ey still feared hounds, though ey’d learned not to show it.

Grantaire had been to lots of places, far beyond the Woods Between. Ey skipped everything about Bamatabois and told Enjolras about entertaining instead. “Only thing I’m good at,” ey said wryly. “It distracts people from my face at least.”

“It’s not –” Enjolras started, then frowned and bit his lip. “I mean, you’re…there’s nothing wrong with your face.”

“Spare me, sweetling,” Grantaire snorted, the pet name slipping out before ey could stop it. Ey shook eir head, embarrassed. “Sorry. But I know what I look like. I blame the troll in me.”

“What’s wrong with trolls?” Enjolras asked, frowning harder, and Grantaire laughed.

“Shall I write you a list? Of all the pure fey, trolls are the most elitist, uppity snobs. I’ve had trolls try to skin me just for having horns.” Ey tapped one with eir knuckles. “Mutts with distinguishable troll features are hunted like animals, you know that? I’ve had a bounty on my horns for decades.”

“How old are you?”

The question took Grantaire aback, and ey tipped eir head back to try and figure it out. Numbers had never been eir strong suit. “Excuse me,” ey muttered, and closed eir eyes to concentrate. “Sixties to here makes…close to fifty, at least ten here and there in this world…sixty, plus…” The effort of not counting on eir fingers was costing an embarrassing amount of time, and Grantaire gave up with a defeated shrug. “A hundred and forty, hundred and fifty or so? What about you?”

“Lamarque said vae claimed me when I was three. So I’m twenty six.”

Grantaire stared at him. “You look younger.”

“How do you judge the age of humans?”

When he was older, perhaps he would be dry. Now, he was just curious. Grantaire fiddled with the hems of eir trousers. “Lines in the skin of the face and hands, mostly.”

“You know a lot about humans.” Enjolras glanced up at the window, frowning. “I know a lot less than I thought.”

“They’re a complicated race.” Grantaire shrugged. “Like most races, really.”

“Better than faeries though.” Enjolras met eir eyes with something that might have been defiance, and Grantaire could only laugh.

“You think so?”

“Humans don’t hunt children with dogs.”

“Don’t they?” Grantaire huffed and rose to eir feet. “I’ve got books on human history in this shitheap, changeling. Read the ones about wars and get back to me about how much better humans are than faeries. At least the fey are honest about the nasty stuff.” Ey left Enjolras on the floor in the kitchen and fled to hide in eir attic room. Fleeing was eir answer to everything.

On the next morning, the wards shuddered. Grantaire was down the stairs before ey had even thought to grab a weapon, and ey shouted Enjolras’ name as ey leaped downwards.

“What?” Enjolras appeared in the doorway of the garden, eyes wide. Grantaire took the trowel in his hand and pushed him back inside.

“Stay inside, don’t make a sound.” Ey closed the door before Enjolras could say another word, and kept moving. There was someone outside the front door, a faery, and Grantaire crouched at the top of the first flight of stairs with eir teeth bared, tensed to attack. 

A bold, jaunty knock – tap-ta-ta-ta-tap-tap – and Grantaire let out a long breath, rising to eir feet. “Gavroche?”

“Wards’re strong!” the puck called through cheerfully, and Grantaire scowled, going down to let faer in.

“Swear you’re alone?” ey checked, just to be safe. Gavroche was no traitor, but pucks weren’t exactly true to the bone.

“Only me and my shadow.”

“That had better be your natural shadow,” Grantaire muttered, opening the door. Gavroche jumped inside, quick as a flash.

Even for a puck, Gavroche was small, only standing as high as Grantaire’s waist when fae bothered to stand on the ground. Fae preferred to climb though, and as they ascended, Grantaire took the stairs while Gavroche clambered up the banister, tail flicking about to keep faer balance. “Where’s your pet then?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire corrected, frowning. “His name is Enjolras.”

“Hus name could be nimble-me-dick for all I care,” Gavroche’s shiny green eyes gleamed. “I want to see hum.”

“Him.”

“You keep hum as a pet or a companion?” Gavroche retorted, stopping at the third floor when Grantaire did and straightening faer tattered tailcoat. All pucks wore their clothes to rags, but Gavroche had a touch of the dandy in faer, and enough curiosity for a clowder of cats. Fae inhaled deeply, then jumped for the garden door.

“Wait –” Grantaire jerked after faer, too late of course, and in the second it took for him to get inside, Enjolras was already against the wall, brandishing a shovel. Gavroche was hiding behind the bean frames, green skin and mossy hair blending in perfectly. “Get out of there,” Grantaire snapped. “Enjolras, this is Gavroche. Fae’s a friend.”

Before Enjolras could reply, Gavroche was in front of him, sharp teeth bared in a wide grin. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” Fae gave an exaggerated bow, then sprung upright and laughed at Grantaire. “Can’t believe you took a slave!” fae crowed.

“Shut up.” Grantaire scowled.

“You!” Gavroche snickered. “The changeling who murdered the Lark twins and all!”

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, clearly uneasy. “Leave off,” Grantaire told Gavroche. “What did you come here for?”

“Touchy.” Gavroche grinned and flipped backwards to walk on faer hands. “I’ve got a present,” fae sang. “A gift for Grantaire, whose face is so fair, a present so rare, you’ll drop jaw and stare.”

Grantaire flushed. Pucks teased, and Gavroche was no exception, and it wasn’t as though ey didn’t know what ey looked like. But being mocked in front of Enjolras was different, somehow. “I’m in no mood for games.” Grantaire looked even worse scowling, but ey couldn’t help it.

“Then take me to your parlour, dearest charming spider.” Gavroche jumped upright and smirked. “It’s from Montparnasse, if that makes a difference.” It did, and Grantaire sighed, turning to Enjolras.

“You’re welcome to join us. Your company’s far more pleasant than faes.” Ey jerked eir head at Gavroche, who just grinned.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras was still holding the shovel, and Grantaire stepped forward to take it from his hands.

“Of course. A troll would be preferable to a puck.”

Gavroche squawked, and the barest hint of a smile touched the corners of Enjolras’ mouth. It shouldn’t have made Grantaire’s stomach flutter the way it did, but these things couldn’t be helped. Ey turned away and led both up the stairs to eir room. “Why’d you come on foot anyway?” ey asked Gavroche.

“Had business with another friend underground. Ponine and Zelma want you to come to the revel tonight – the moon’s dark.”

“And leave Enjolras?” Grantaire snorted.

“You could bring hum,” Gavroche shrugged, letting Grantaire go first when they reached the final flight of stairs. Grantaire laughed outright.

“Why not?” Enjolras asked from below, and Grantaire rolled eir eyes.

“Because I’d rather keep my life and yours, dar – changeling.” Curse eir tongue. Gavroche’s grin was splitting faer face when they emerged, and Grantaire scowled. “What’ve you got for me then?”

Gavroche ran to the end of eir bed and leapt up onto the wooden bedstead, long tail and toes locking faer in place as fae produced a bracelet from the air. “Neat little trick, this. Take a look.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras first, who was gazing around with wide eyes. He’d never been up here before, of course. Absurdly, Grantaire wished ey’d had time to clean up a bit. Eir room was the whole attic, Grantaire’s bed tucked against the far wall with tables and workbenches taking up most of the rest of the space. Clothes littered the worn rugs over the bare floorboards, and Grantaire kicked them out of the way as surreptitiously as ey could. The sloped ceilings met in the middle with skylights on either side. Enjolras was drawn to the view, of course – he loved to watch the world beyond the windows. 

But Gavroche was waiting, so Grantaire took the bracelet from faer and turned it over in eir fingers, casting eir senses. A slow smile began to grow on eir face. “It’s cursed?”

“And how. It –”

“Wait, I want to guess.” Ey sank to the floor and sat cross-legged, rubbing the metal of the band and studying the design – bright, delicate flowers on a shiny black background. It wasn’t anything particularly special, physically, but there was an elegance to it ey liked.

From the corner of eir eye, Grantaire saw Enjolras turned his head to look at em, and tried to ignore it, focusing on the bracelet. Any extra desire ey might have to guess the curse right could be put down to Gavroche being particularly irritating today, not Enjolras’ inquisitive eyes.

There were layers of spells, but none that affected faeries. A human-directed curse, with a focus on desire – gentle, clever spells to probe the wearer’s mind, to open them up, to trick their brains. And below that, spells of mania, a hint of that feeling of desperate, demonic energy at a revel when the dancing was at its height and the music was screaming through every person there –

“Showing the wearer their desires,” Grantaire said slowly, “in order to drive them to madness. But only humans.”

“Keep it away from the changeling,” Gavroche jested, somersaulting off the bedstead and landing on faer feet with barely a sound.

“And what does Montparnasse want me to do with it?”

“Tune down the madness part a little. Drive the wearer wild, but not out of their skull.”

Grantaire’s lip curled. “Get them hooked, you mean? Of course Montparnasse came to me.”

Gavroche shrugged. “You said it. Sir says you can take your time.”

“Tell sire –”

“Not your courier,” Gavroche interrupted. “Tell sire yourself.”

“And get close enough for the siren to sing? I think not.” Grantaire had met Montparnasse in person only thrice, and that had been more than enough. They did a little business here and there, but sirens were only a step away from true ocean fey, and that set even Grantaire on edge.

“Suit yourself.” Gavroche’s tail twitched, the rest of faer body unnaturally still. Grantaire took the hint and sighed.

“Want some cake?”

“Rather have dust.”

Grantaire huffed, but got up to go and get his pouch from one of the workbenches. At least it wasn’t on his bedside table – that would’ve been showing entirely too much for eir comfort. “Only a pinch, mind,” ey warned, holding it out.

“On my teeth,” Gavroche swore, licking faer finger and dipping it in. It came out coated in shimmering glitter, and fae sucked faer finger clean with a satisfied smile before going to the mirror. “I’ll see you about.”

“I hope not.” Grantaire dipped eir horns regardless, a farewell habit ey’d never been able to shed. Gavroche nodded back and pressed faer hands to the surface of the full-length mirror against the wall. The reflection shimmered and turned to inky blackness, and Gavroche stepped through just before the mirror’s natural surface flooded back.

The silence fae left in faer absence thickened like treacle. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ eyes on the back of eir head, and forced emself to speak. “I’m sorry if Gavroche startled you.”

“How did fae leave through the looking-glass?”

Grantaire smiled, turning around and giving Enjolras an amused look. “Questions, questions, questions. It’s a mirror, sw – Enjolras.” Damn tongue, ey needed to stop slipping up like that. “They’re gateways.”

“But how does it work?” Enjolras frowned at it as though that would make it reveal its secrets. “Is it a spell?”

“No. It’s just faery glass. Lamarque must’ve had one, surely?” Ey raised eir eyebrows when Enjolras shook his head. “You must’ve seen yourself before.”

“I’ve seen my reflection in windows and water. I’d never seen it in a real looking-glass. Lamarque said they were dangerous.”

“Because they’re gateways,” Grantaire nodded. “Mine’s strongly locked. No one can get in that way without my say so.”

“But they could get out?” There was no mistaking the wistful note in his voice, and Grantaire shook eir head.

“Don’t even think about it, changeling.”

“Don’t call me that.” Enjolras’ temper snapped up, and Grantaire looked away from his blazing eyes. “You said we’d figure something out. I can’t stand being indoors all the time, locked up like a prisoner. I want to go outside! Can’t you at least open a window?”

Grantaire shook his head. “There are wards, my web – you don’t understand, Enjolras, it’s not safe.”

“I’d rather be at risk than live like this.” So proud, so defiant. Grantaire couldn’t help wilting under that glare, but ey tried to pull emself together.

“It’s dangerous, Enjolras. I can’t lose you.”

“I’m not yours to lose!”

Grantaire sucked in a shallow breath. It was the truth, of course it was the truth, but it stung for some reason ey couldn’t put eir finger on.

Enjolras seemed to retreat a little in the face of Grantaire’s silence, anger turning to sullenness. “If you won’t claim me as a slave, what authority can you claim to have over me?”

“None,” Grantaire admitted. “I worry, Enjolras, that’s all. You’re so green, barely a sapling.”

“I’m hardly going to grow inside,” Enjolras said acidly. Grantaire wondered whether he’d railed against Lamarque like this. Somehow, ey doubted it.

“I know. Just…” Ey wrapped a hand around one of eir horns and chewed eir lip. “Okay, fine. We’ll go outside. Visits, if you like. I’ll show you around Paris. Will that suffice?” They’d have to make a trip to the Market eventually – they might as well warm up by tackling Paris first.

“You swear it?” Enjolras squirmed after he spoke, clearly aware of how desperate he sounded. Grantaire nodded.

“I swear it. We’ll go this week. Tomorrow. We can get you some clothes too,” ey added. “I should’ve dealt with that earlier, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” Enjolras smiled, and Grantaire’s heart sank even as ey managed a wobbly smile in return. To make Enjolras smile like that again, ey knew ey’d do most anything.

 

Enjolras knew every inch of Grantaire’s house save the very bottom and the very top. He’d sorted every book, tended to the garden, touched the scorch marks and scratches on the walls of the empty room on the third floor where Grantaire presumably practiced eir entertaining routines. What had seemed like a tower or a castle when he’d arrived had shrunk over the weeks until it felt like he was being crushed in a vice, every wall and ceiling an added pressure.

Grantaire had a routine with the curse catchers, he’d realised. Every day, usually in the afternoon or evening, ey would go through the house and check every single one, taking them down and holding them in eir hands for a minute or so before replacing them. Cleaning them, Enjolras had figured out, and he could tell the difference if he touched them as well, before and after Grantaire did. 

Before Grantaire cleaned them, the curse catchers buzzed against Enjolras’ skin, staticky and almost painful. If he held them for too long, he would start feeling nauseated. But after Grantaire was done with them, the cord cages and webs would feel empty and fresh, and stronger than before. It was only the certainty of the continuing attacks against them that kept Enjolras from making another bid for freedom.

It wasn’t hard to see the connections between how he was living now to how he had lived with Lamarque. There had been restrictions then as well, strict instructions to never leave the safety of the meadow’s boundaries. But the meadow had at least been large, and had been outside. Enjolras could read out on the grass if he wished, or under the shade of the trees in the orchard. He could find flowers and weave them into chains and crowns and bracelets, and plait rings from grass. There had been colour, and life, and fresh air against his skin, sun on his back.

The promise of having just a shade of that sent sparks through his blood. After leaving Grantaire’s room, impatience and anxious desire clawed at his chest, sending him prowling around the house going from window to window to window. He wished he could go up into Grantaire’s room to see the view from the roof, but he would never dare ask. The clouds were heavy today, thick grey-black and swollen. Before noon came the rain, drops falling fast straight downwards to soak the earth below. Occasional gusts of wind blew the fall against the windows, sudden spatters hitting the glass in irregular patterns.

It would be loud up in Grantaire’s room, with the rain hammering hard on the roof. The perfect background for reading. Enjolras settled into his favourite room on the fourth floor instead and continued to read the human history book he’d found. France was an excellent country. Lamarque had told him about the Revolution, and praised humans for consistently refusing to bow to tyranny and oppression.

“Not like faeries,” vae’d sneered. “The courts rule with stone fists, and the old families refuse to consider new ways of living. Humans adapt and grow and change. Faeries remain mired in the mud of the past.”

Humans were better. That’s what Enjolras had always been taught, and learning about some of the less than exemplary moments in human history wasn’t going to change it.

On the next morning, Grantaire found him and brought him up to eir room. “You can’t go out with bare feet,” ey said. “Humans don’t do that.”

“I know.” He wasn’t as ignorant as that.

“We can get you some clothes of your own while we’re out,” Grantaire smiled, throwing him a pair of socks. “Things that actually fit.”

Enjolras had almost forgotten that the overlarge t-shirt he was wearing wasn’t his. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Grantaire gave him a different shirt, a pair of what ey called jeans (they were too short, and too wide), and a jacket. Instead of socks and shoes, Enjolras ended up wearing sandals. It felt like conceding defeat to squirm at the sensation of his feet trapped inside cotton and canvas, but he’d never worn shoes before, even in winter. The meadow could be blanketed in snow, and Enjolras would simply limit the time he spent outside to avoid frostbite.

“Take this.” Grantaire didn’t mention the discarded shoes, and handed him a thin piece of metal. It was a snake, Enjolras saw, bent to look as if it was moving. The metal was coloured, brownish-green that seemed to swirl as he stared. “It’s for if I lose you,” Grantaire explained. “I’ll be able to find you, and it’ll help keep you safe.”

“How?”

“It’s spelled, for good luck and safety from enemies.”

“Who spelled it?” Enjolras slipped it into his pocket. “You?”

“No, it was a gift.” Grantaire went to eir mirror and took a little jewelled pot from next to the open pouch of dust on one of eir workbenches. Lamarque had told Enjolras about the faery drug, which induced periods of intense relaxation and numb pleasure. Too much dulled the mind, vae’d warned Enjolras, but a pinch every now and then was good for inviting sleep and easing pain.

Enjolras somehow doubted Grantaire kept so large a bag for such innocent purposes.

He watched in silence by the banister as Grantaire smeared some of the ointment in the pot on eir horns. “Glamour,” ey explained when ey saw Enjolras looking.

Enjolras went to one of the windows in the ceiling and looked out over Paris. Of course he’d known it was a glamour – he wasn’t a fool. A minute later, Grantaire cleared eir throat and Enjolras turned. Ey looked the same for a moment, but then Enjolras squinted and eir horns faded, eir skin losing its green. The horns reappeared a moment later and he frowned. “I don’t think it’s working.”

Grantaire raised eir eyebrows. “You can still see me? As I am, I mean?” Enjolras nodded, and ey frowned. “Odd. Are both your eyes Sighted?”

“Yes.”

“Naturally, or was that something Lamarque did?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras looked down. “I’ve always had it.”

Grantaire was quiet for a moment. Then, “We’d better get a move on. Come on, darling, let’s go and see the sky.”

Enjolras followed close behind, his heart racing. _Outside_. He hadn’t been outside for weeks. On the step outside Grantaire’s front door, Enjolras paused, breathing in deeply. Yesterday’s rain had left the morning damp and fresh. The only greenery was in the window boxes on the opposite building, but Enjolras could smell it anyway, and couldn’t help smiling, amazed.

The buildings were pale, man-made things, with bright, artificial colours in the shops surrounding them. Ordered and solid, nothing like what he’d seen of faery creations. Perhaps that was why Grantaire preferred to live in the mortal world – their houses could be homes, while faery dwelling places were only ever that: places to dwell.  Even Lamarque’s meadow hadn’t been like Grantaire’s home.

“Come on, changeling.”

Enjolras jerked. Grantaire was a few paces away already, grinning. Enjolras hurried after em. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Don’t get distracted while we’re moving though, okay? I need to keep you safe.”

Enjolras looked away, studying the buildings they were passing. His blood was fizzing, skin aching from the desire to run his fingers over everything, breathe deep to inhale as many new scents as he could. An empty plastic bag danced past along the ground, lifted by the wind, and Enjolras stooped to catch it without thinking. He’d never touched anything like it before, thin and smooth and crinkly. “How long have you lived in the mortal realm?” he made himself ask, dropping the bag. It was rubbish, he remembered. Humans didn’t pick rubbish up outside of their own dwellings.

“In total? Or do you mean how long have I lived where I do now?”

“Both.” Perhaps it was the outside air that made him so bold. A breeze blew up the street, and Enjolras closed his eyes to savour the sensation of it on his bare skin.

“I lived as a mortal for a few years, just to dull my senses a bit.” Grantaire pushed a hand through eir hair. Enjolras could still see the faint outline of eir horns, though they were fainter out here than they’d been inside. “I’d been coming here for a lot longer though. And I got the house…oh, ten years ago?”

They fell silent, and Enjolras took the opportunity to just look around, eyes drinking in everything they could. Paris was beautiful, and there were humans _everywhere_. People like him. From the windows of Grantaire’s house, he hadn’t been able to see as much detail, see their faces, their hands, their eyes. He couldn’t stop staring.

Lamarque had told him many things, but Grantaire showed him more. They went to shops, and Grantaire let him choose what he wanted to wear. If Enjolras cast glances at the women’s side of the store, it was only because everything was new to him, surely. He chose trousers and t-shirts, plain and pale. At Grantaire’s nod, he allowed himself to have one bright thing – a soft fleecy jacket, red and orange and yellow.

“Fire colours,” Grantaire remarked as they left, and held up the bag. “You can wear it now if you like.”

Enjolras shook his head, and Grantaire shrugged and led him on to more places, telling him about them as they went, and took him to a supermarket to get more food. “Not as nice as the stuff in Faerie,” ey allowed, filling a cart with boxes and packages, “but less dangerous, and much easier to get.” Ey paid at the end with human money, and smiled when ey caught Enjolras staring. “What?”

“Where do you get that from?” Enjolras frowned at eir wallet, bulging with charms and bits of paper and jangling with coins.

“Leaves and paper,” Grantaire lifted a hand to eir head, then dropped it when ey seemed to remember eir horns were invisible now. “I have a friend who specialises in glamours for the mortal world. Maybe I’ll take you to meet faer one day. Fae’d like to meet you, I think.”

“What is fae?” Enjolras asked cautiously.

“Mostly elf, but faer dam was a sea faery.” Ey laughed at Enjolras’ shocked expression. “It happens sometimes. Faer sire is an elf in the Wood Court, and vae was an envoy to the shore. So Jehan came to be.”

Enjolras knew little to nothing about the faeries of the oceans. Fresh water faeries were all well and good, but the sea was a different matter completely. Merrows were the most common faeries to be seen by those on land, but everyone knew there were multitudes beneath the waves. The ocean was miles deep, and dark beyond reckoning. There were faeries down there more dangerous than any on land. It was rare for a land faery to tangle in any way with one from the sea and survive, let alone for such a union to produce offspring.

“Is fae safe?” Enjolras felt he had to ask.

Grantaire smiled. “I told you, fae’s mostly elf. Fae’s got a few ocean traits, but just think of faer as royalty. All ocean-dwellers are sovereigns in their own right, I hear. Jehan’s got a sovereign’s bearing, and fae can be dark on occasion. For the most part, fae’s as elf as faer sire though, so you needn’t worry. We don’t need to see faer if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t mind.” He had no real choice in Grantaire’s whims. It was better not to give himself the illusion that he did.

“Perhaps we can see a few of my other friends too.” Grantaire brightened, and took Enjolras’ arm to steer him out of the path of a woman with a baby-chair on wheels. “A couple are in Faerie, but Musichetta’s in Paris most times. And Bahorel’s – whoa, careful.” Ey pulled Enjolras against the wall as a couple of human boys ran past. “Tss. Mortals are always in such a hurry.”

They went to a café, and Enjolras drank hot chocolate and asked questions until Grantaire started to tell him more about living as a mortal in Paris, and living as a solitary entertainer in Faerie. Enjolras listened in bewitched silence. Not even Lamarque had lived as a mortal like Grantaire had, and someone like Lamarque would never have gotten into fights like Grantaire, or stolen to survive, or experienced such difficulties. Grantaire brushed over them when ey told eir stories, but they were always there. Ey’d had to be wary and vicious eir whole life simply to live to see another day. All Enjolras knew of life was a meadow, and a brief week of terror and rage.

Grantaire laughed as ey spoke, hummed in pleasure at the taste of eir bitter coffee, and kept eir fingers constantly moving. Dancing along the table, wrinkling and tearing the napkin, spinning the spoon. Enjolras listened and watched in silence, something in him enthralled by how different Grantaire was to Lamarque. Lamarque was – had been – all careful control and precision. Grantaire gestured with eir hands and arms, shook eir head, smiled with eir whole face. Ey was so expressive, almost wild.

Grantaire left him to get them food, and Enjolras watched em in the line of humans. Even glamoured, ey stood out. More vibrant, somehow. Dangerous. Grantaire looked over at him and smiled, and Enjolras snapped his gaze down, heat rising to his face.

“Do you want to stay out longer?” Grantaire asked when ey came back. Enjolras nodded immediately, the embarrassment at the admission fading when Grantaire grinned. “Excellent. I have a friend I want to visit.”

Bahorel was an ogre, and to find vir they had to go to Montmartre Cemetery. “Humans are so weird,” Grantaire said cheerfully as they walked, Enjolras thrilled at being out of breath from pushing himself up the hills and forcing himself to match Grantaire’s pace. “Burying their dead in special places. What do you want to happen to your body when you die?”

“I’ve never thought about it.” Despite the rainy chill in the air, there were still stubborn people sat outside the cafés and bistros. Enjolras relished the cold of the breeze against his skin, the smells it brought him and the relief of coolness against the heat of exertion. “Have you?”

“Depends where I die. Most likely I’ll be dumped in a wood and left for the animals.” Ey shrugged. “So it goes. This way.” Ey turned a corner, up another sloping street. The road was cobbled, but the pavements were smooth, lined with more tall, pale buildings with bright shops and restaurants below. At the end of the road where the buildings should have continued, there was an open patch of sky, and treetops poking above the wall at the edge of the pavement.

“Such a busy city,” Grantaire said fondly as they reached the end of the road, turning onto a bridge. Enjolras stared – the bridge went over the cemetery itself, little stone houses in neat lines almost close enough to jump onto from the bridge’s rail. “Had to put a bridge over a cemetery. Do you like it?”

Enjolras could only nod, mute, and Grantaire laughed. “This is Bahorel’s bridge. Ve’s very proud of it.”

The bridge was a road, the railings covered in ugly paint with the rivets and joints plain to see. But the cemetery below looked beautiful. Enjolras just hoped Bahorel wouldn’t ask whether he thought the bridge was pleasing to the eye. He’d never been any good at lying – Lamarque had always said it was his honest nature.

There were steps at the end of the bridge leading down to the entrance. The bridge was so low over the cemetery that the space beneath was cast in dark shadow, and Grantaire sauntered straight over without hesitation. Enjolras hung back, looking around. The stone houses and statues were shabbier up close, weeds growing along the sides of the graves, waterstains in green lines down the sides of the monuments. And as Enjolras stared, a white and ginger cat jumped up onto a carving of a woman prostate on the top of a crypt and lay down to watch him, blinking lazily in a patch of sunlight.

“Enjolras!”

He turned and made himself follow Grantaire into the darkness below the bridge. There were two figures leaning against a narrow mausoleum, one horned, one not. Ogres were usually large faeries, strong and violent, but this one was something of an exception. Ve was tall and muscled, but nowhere close to the hulking creatures illustrated in Lamarque’s books. Lean rather than bulky, with clothes rather than armour. Bahorel wore a long coat patterned in shining blues and greens over striped dark trousers and a matching shirt and waistcoat of red, dark burgundy over bright scarlet.

Enjolras didn’t even realise his breath had caught in his throat until Bahorel bowed and said, “So you must be the famous changeling.”

The air rushed from his lungs. “I’m famous?”

Bahorel laughed and beckoned him closer. Ve had the grey-green skin Lamarque’s books said ogres had, but virs was marked with black dots across vir cheekbones, and three black lines down vir forehead. And vir hands were marked as well, Enjolras noticed. More black lines, symbols on each knuckle, some distorted by scars.

“You’re the one who killed the Lark twins.” Bahorel’s fist slammed into Enjolras’ shoulder hard enough to send him staggering backwards two steps, but the ogre was laughing. “Well done!”

Grantaire was glaring at vir, but Enjolras managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” He would certainly have a bruise in an hour. 

“Come on in, I haven’t seen you for weeks.” Bahorel cuffed Grantaire round the back of the head, and Enjolras recalled a passage from one of Lamarque’s tomes – ogres expressed positivity with violence. And anger and aggression and love and affection, but that was what made ogres ogres. “You too, changeling,” Bahorel added, and Enjolras scowled.

“My name is Enjolras.”

Bahorel grinned. “As you say. This way, distinguished guest.” Ve pulled open the grate on the mausoleum ve and Grantaire had been leaning against and went inside, humming as ve went down the stairs concealed within.

The stone staircase was narrow, and would have been unbearable if Grantaire had not trusted him to come last. Enjolras kept one hand on the wall and glanced back over his shoulder to the open door behind them. “Won’t somebody see that?”

“I’ll go and close it in a minute,” Bahorel said from below. “Now first thing’s first.” The staircase opened out into a beautifully furnished parlour, the stone walls and floor totally hidden by bright carpets and hangings, thin swathes of some silk-like material pinned to the ceiling above. “R, you missed the revel of a lifetime.”

“Éponine and Azelma?” Grantaire sank into an armchair and helped emself to a box of chocolates on the floor. “Spare me.”

“They’re pissed you didn’t come.” Bahorel darted back up the stairs to close the door, and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder when ve returned. “Sit, sit! Follow R’s example – help yourself.” Ve grinned and pushed Enjolras towards a chair, and went to sprawl along the couch opposite. “You could’ve picked up a pretty penny there, R. The musicians flew away on wings of gold and silver.”

“With how many new instruments?” Grantaire asked dryly. Enjolras curled up in the free armchair, trying to be invisible.

“Only one – lovely little pixie gave ixself up to be a harp. You should’ve seen ix dance, R, I haven’t seen anything like it since that human Bamatabois brought – pardon my bringing em up.”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire sighed. “You mean Fantine.”

“Was that hus name?”

“Her name. Yes.”

“She danced beautifully before she perished though,” Bahorel said, and Grantaire couldn’t seem to help smiling, however sad it was.

“That she did.”

“You’re wearing eir clothes,” Bahorel realised suddenly, staring at Enjolras. Both he and Grantaire squirmed.

“It’s not like that,” Grantaire hastened to say, but Bahorel cut em off.

“I know, you’re too noble. But skies, please tell me you bought hum something else.”

“Him,” Enjolras corrected. “We got new things today.” Was it Bahorel’s easy smile that made it so easy to speak to him? Or the physicality of his affection?

“Show me,” Bahorel commanded, but groaned when ve went through the bags. “This is appalling. Did you choose these?” ve asked Grantaire. “They’ve got you written all over them.”

Grantaire huffed. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“I’ll draw you up a list, but this,” ve pulled out a plain white shirt and shuddered. “This is only fit for the fire. You want nicer things.” Ve looked directly at Enjolras, so totally certain that Enjolras could only nod, embarrassed at being caught out. 

“I didn’t want –” 

“To be any trouble, I’m sure,” Bahorel finished, dropping the clothes and pulling Enjolras onto his feet. “What on earth are you worried about? Grantaire’s about as vicious as a kitten with the people ey likes.”

“Shut up, ogre,” Grantaire grumbled, taking another chocolate. “You outfit him, since you understand him so well.”

“Deal. If you’re willing?” Bahorel thought to ask Enjolras, who nodded. Grantaire was kind, but Bahorel had dress sense, and what ve wore was like the clothes Enjolras had been pretending he didn’t want, but acceptable because they were fey garments. “Wonderful. Follow me, Lark-killer.”

Enjolras didn’t even argue the nickname.

 

“You’re a marvel,” Grantaire muttered to Bahorel while Enjolras changed into the final outfit Bahorel had gifted him. Bahorel grinned and polished vir claws on vir waistcoat.

“It’s true, I have a certain undefinable style. It’s a good thing you didn’t take him to Jehan – he would’ve come away dressed in seaweed and sackcloth.”

Grantaire stifled a laugh. “Jehan pulls it off.”

“Jehan could – and does – walk around in nothing but leaves and still look as though fae were a sovereign. The rest of us are not so fortunate, and must make do with clothes that do not physically change to suit us. It’s a crime that Jehan wears what fae wears so well.” Ve sighed. “Still, at least Enjolras appreciates my meagre gifts. I can’t believe you took him to human shops for clothes.” Ve wrinkled vir nose.

“He’s a human.”

“And my arse shoots sparks when I spit,” Bahorel snorted. “If he was truly human, he wouldn’t have been able to get in here. Take him to Chetta, ae’ll know for sure.”

They both paused as the door to Bahorel’s clothes room opened (to call it a wardrobe would have been a disservice – it was probably the biggest room in Bahorel’s dwelling) and Enjolras stepped out, smiling. Grantaire should’ve seen it when he hesitated for so long over choosing the fire-coloured jumper – Enjolras had clearly been holding back when they went shopping.

He had looked beautiful before in Grantaire’s plain, ill-fitting garments, but in clothes enchanted to fit, he was breathtaking. The trousers clinging to his legs were dark enough to be black, but at closer inspection appeared to be a very dark green. Under a deep purple blazer, he wore what might have been another jacket or a waistcoat, the sunflower yellow standing out beautifully. The shirt below that was pale blue, or at least the collar was. Grantaire was beaming, ey realised when Bahorel poked eir cheek.

“You look wonderful,” ey managed to say.

“Much more yourself,” Bahorel agreed, going to stand in front of him and squeeze his shoulders. “We’ll call this a gift, because I despised the Lark twins, but only on the condition that you never let Grantaire take you shopping for clothes again.”

Enjolras laughed, and he _was_ standing taller like this, not just a changeling in a room with two faeries, but someone special in his own right. “Deal.”

Bahorel shooed them out, and Grantaire took Enjolras back to the house. Or would’ve done if Enjolras hadn’t insisted walking around some more. “What’s down there?” he asked, pointing down a boulevard. “Can we listen for a bit?” of a busker playing a violin outside a métro station. “Where does that go?” looking down the stairs to the métro itself.

“To a place we’re definitely not going,” Grantaire snorted, pulling him away from the steps. “Underground is out of bounds unless I’ve been specifically invited, and even then I tend to keep away.”

“Why?” Enjolras didn’t look at em as he asked, too busy staring up at the windows of the buildings around them, shopping bags refilled with Bahorel’s gifts swinging against his legs.

“Trolls have dominion over all underground tunnels, even human-made ones. There are stations down there that’ve been abandoned to us anyway, so they’re all linked up, and I’ve got a bounty on my horns.” Ey tapped one, and reached out to pull Enjolras out of the way of a hurrying pedestrian with eyes only for their phone. “Watch yourself, darling. Enjolras,” ey corrected quickly.

Enjolras opened his mouth as though to say something, then shook his head and walked on, looking back over his shoulder and motioning for Grantaire to follow. Already this had become their new way of walking. Enjolras led and demanded answers to all of his questions; Grantaire meandered behind to watch and admire and provide answers when ey could.

This attitude had always been present, ey saw. Even in the Hall of Whispers Enjolras had been defiant, withdrawing into himself when scared rather than showing it. He had been growing this whole time, and Grantaire had simply not seen it until now. Bold, bright Enjolras who walked through human Paris as though he had belonged there all his life, though he’d never set foot in it before that morning.

And Grantaire was stifling him by keeping him locked up. But what else could ey do?

They passed a pair of girls on a bench, a baby yelling excitedly on one of their laps as they laughed and encouraged it, and Enjolras looked over his shoulder at Grantaire and grinned.

They would go out every day, ey decided. Enjolras had never smiled like that inside. Every day, or as often as they could. Enjolras seemed to drink the sunlight in, glowing under the trees lining the boulevard. Grantaire’s breath caught – inspiration at last – and ey snatched a large leaf from one of the overhanging branches.

Creating imprints was delicate, difficult work, and this one would be sloppy and faded, but Grantaire pulled elements from the air with feverish desperation, eyes on Enjolras’ back the entire time. The background had to come first, so Grantaire held the leaf tight and pulled on the fabric of the universe, dragging a hint of the chilly air and pressing it to the leaf’s surface, forcing it in and pinning it in place with eir thumb. Then came the dampness still present around em, the smells, the sight of dark, water-soaked soil in the flowerbeds behind the benches, the sound of Parisian chatter and the ceaseless _shhhhhhhhhhhhh_ of passing cars, wheels passing through puddles, the leaves dancing above and dappling the sunlight and shadows on the paving stones below.

And at the centre of it, Enjolras. Golden hair cascading halfway down his back, shining against the dark purple blazer. The swing of his body as he walked, half his profile visible as he turned and tilted his head to take in as much as he could with the time he had. The curve of his smile was just detectable in the glimpses Grantaire could get of his face. The breeze stirred his hair, wisps lifting up and the ends twisting back and forth. Enjolras flicked it back over his shoulder, carelessly graceful, and Grantaire memorised the motion of his arm and long fingers, mentally replayed it again and again, pressing it into the leaf like eir life depended on it.

Enjolras swerved, and Grantaire followed when he crossed the road to go into a patisserie. It was only once he was at the counter that he thought to look behind him for Grantaire. “Can –”

“Pick anything you like,” Grantaire grinned, and handed over a stack of enchanted leaves and paper when Enjolras chose an éclair, some sort of fruity tart thing, and three different coloured macaroons.

“Try some,” he insisted when they were sat down. Grantaire took an obliging nibble of the tart, and wondered whether Enjolras would notice if ey tried making another imprint here, because the delighted expressions on Enjolras’ face every time he tasted something new and sweeter than the last thing he’d tried were beyond words.

They got back to the house as dusk was setting in, the bearable chill becoming uncomfortable cold. Grantaire sighed as ey closed the door, rubbing eir hands together and conjuring a few flames to warm them.

“Can we…” Enjolras trailed off, then glanced at the door and pushed on. “Can we go outside again tomorrow?”

He’d already wilted a little, just from having a roof over his head. Grantaire imagined squeezing his hand, running eir fingers through that beautiful hair and pulling him into a hug. Ey nodded instead. “Of course. You should show off your new clothes.”

Enjolras smiled, holding the bags so tightly the plastic crinkled. “You like them?”

“They suit you a lot better than my rags.” Grantaire blew into eir hands, fanning the flames. “Are you hungry?”

Enjolras nodded, so Grantaire made them pasta. Enjolras tore bread apart with his fingers, spreading the chunks with thick yellow butter, and Grantaire took down the curse catcher in the window to cleanse it, feeling Enjolras’ eyes on em the whole time. Ey worked slower, making sure Enjolras could see everything ey was doing. “You can help if you want,” ey offered eventually, feeling how tense Enjolras was from holding his questions back.

“I can’t do magic.” Enjolras frowned.

“I told you, humans can work magic too, it’s not that difficult. Anyone can cleanse, and you already know how to make a cord cage. Practice makes perfect, sw – changeling.”

Enjolras hesitated, then pushed his plate out of the way, brushing crumbs off his fingers. “Will you help me?”

“I wouldn’t be much use if I didn’t.” Grantaire dragged eir chair round to sit next to Enjolras instead of opposite him and handed him a cord cage he hadn’t cleansed yet. “Feel anything?”

“They buzz before you clean them,” Enjolras said quietly. “And afterwards, they’re empty and kind of…glowy? That sounds stupid, but –”

“It isn’t, that’s exactly right.” Grantaire swallowed, trying to contain emself. It made sense for Enjolras to be sensitive, didn’t it? If he’d spent his whole life in Faerie… But then Lamarque had clearly never taught him anything about magic beyond the lie that humans had no aptitude for it. “You’ve already caught the feeling, that’s the hard part done.”

“It is?” Enjolras blinked, looking down at his hands cradling the curse catcher.

“For humans, yes. The next part’s easy – you just pull the buzzing shit out, and burn it.”

“Burn it with what?”

“Your energy.” Grantaire pursed eir lips. “Try visualising it, I guess. Pull out the buzzy stuff and imagine fire in your blood instead of…well, blood. Hold the buzzing in your hand, then burn it. Watch me.” Ey could repeat it with all the other curse catchers if necessary – it wasn’t like they had a shortage.

Ey held the cage in one palm and touched eir fingertips gently to the tips of the sticks and the soft string between them, pulling all the bad energy and curses that it had caught into eir hand. “Did you feel that?”

“I think so.” Enjolras sounded entranced, but Grantaire didn’t dare look to see. Ey let a little energy rise in the palm of eir hand instead, and focused on burning the curses into nothing.

“Easy, see? Want me to show you again, or do you want to try?”

“I want to try.” Enjolras held his curse catcher the same way Grantaire had and began to pull the energy from it. All the energy. Grantaire opened eir mouth, but Enjolras had sucked the thing dry before ey could even make a sound. Of course, the cage collapsed. Enjolras sucked in a horrified breath. “What did I do? Did I break it?”

“Relax, it’s fine.” Grantaire had to hold onto the edge of the table to stop emself touching Enjolras’ shoulder to reassure him. “I’ll explain in a second. Still got the buzzy stuff in your hand?” Enjolras nodded, shocked. “Then you’re fine. Now just burn it away, like I showed you.”

Grantaire was perfectly ready to step in and help if Enjolras needed it, but Enjolras burned the curses and nasty energy in his hand away so fast and so efficiently that Grantaire flinched backwards. “Whoa.”

“Did I do it right?” Enjolras bit his lip, forehead wrinkled, and Grantaire nodded, still shocked.

“You really did. Guess that proved that thing about humans not being able to do magic wrong, huh?” Ey shook eir head. “Fuck me. Okay, so what happened with the curse catcher was that you didn’t just take the buzzy stuff, you took the energy in the structure of it as well – the stuff I wove in when I made it.”

Enjolras pressed his fingers to his mouth, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire had to laugh. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I remake half of them on a weekly basis.”

“Because they get worn out?” Enjolras guessed, and Grantaire grinned, gathering up the sticks and string.

“Right again.”

“Because so much dark magic is being aimed at the house,” Enjolras frowned, and hesitated before asking, “Is it safe for us to go outside?” He sounded so miserable Grantaire’s hand was hovering over his before ey yanked it away.

“I wouldn’t go out at night, and never underground, but for the most part, it’ll probably be fine. As long as you stay with me,” ey added, wincing. “I’m sorry you can’t go off on your own, but it’s just to be safe. You understand? 

Enjolras nodded. “As long as we can go outside.”

“As often as we can,” Grantaire promised.

Enjolras came with em as ey went around the house cleansing and rehanging the curse catchers, and by the time they reached Grantaire’s room, Enjolras was leading the way, excitement over his newfound abilities overcoming his nerves.

Grantaire watched him stare out of the skylights and held onto the banister of the stairs to stop emself reaching for him. In Grantaire’s clothes, Enjolras had been a changeling. Like this, his face reflected in the glass with one hand on the wall, the curve of his spine and the lines of his legs emphasised by that blazer and the tight trousers, he looked entirely fey. No human Grantaire had ever known had picked up magic so easily and with so much natural strength. Enjolras could see through glamours, and most damningly of all, he had somehow managed to kill the Lark twins. The Pale Court’s best assassins, murdered by someone who’d lived in the same meadow all his life and had never even learned to fight or work magic.

Why would Alveré send two assassins to kill a defenceless old elf like Lamarque?

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire jerked and moved forward to look at whatever had captured Enjolras’ attention. “Mm?”

“What’s going to happen to me after you let me go?” He sounded distant, not quite sad, but close enough to have Grantaire holding back the offer of comfort.

Ey focused on the city instead, on the grey rounded roofs and lit-up windows. “It’s your decision. Think of me as a temporary pause in your hopefully long life.”

“I won’t live that long.” A wrinkled appeared between Enjolras’ eyes. “Alveré will be sovereign of the Pale Court long after I’m dead. Faeries always live longer than humans.”

Grantaire had been trying not to think about that. “It’ll work out,” ey insisted, hoping eir words weren’t as empty as they sounded. “You’re just one changeling. Alveré’s attention has already passed from you, and the longer you live, the less valuable your life becomes to those who would seek favour with your death.”

“And in the meantime these keep me safe?” Enjolras touched the curse catcher he’d hung on the rail of the skylight. “Us safe.”

“Those and me.” Grantaire tugged one of eir horns, glancing at Enjolras and away again. “I’ll keep you safe as long as you’re here. As long as I can.”

Enjolras looked at em, the intensity of his gaze like a searchlight. “Why?”

Grantaire could only shrug, helpless. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”

“Please do.” Enjolras looked at em for a moment longer, then stepped away and left in silence, his bearing that of a sovereign’s. The heat and light in the room seemed dimmed without him, and Grantaire sank down to sit on the floor, reaching for the pouch of dust on the table behind em. There was no need to take him to Musichetta just yet, ey reasoned. Ae wouldn’t want to be bothered without warning, and it wasn’t as though there was a time limit.

Grantaire licked sparkling dust from eir fingertips and lay down under the skylight to try and find stars in Paris’ light-polluted sky, the pouch of dust open on eir chest.

 

Enjolras was in love with Paris. With being outside in general, of course, but with Paris in particular. He kept expecting the wonder of walking through the streets to wear off, for the height of the buildings and the bustle of the people to become part of the background, but it never did. He dragged Grantaire out as often as he could, almost every day. Grantaire humoured him, walking behind to give Enjolras the illusion of freedom.

He was allowed to choose where he went, or ask Grantaire to direct the way to things ey thought would entrance him. Though what didn’t entrance him? They’d gone everywhere on foot, resting their feet in cafés and on benches, sheltering in shops and bistros when the weather was bad. The season was turning, and Enjolras could _feel_ it. Faerie was removed from the turning of seasons, or at least Lamarque’s meadow had been.

Here, everything seemed sharper. It was as if the meadow had been under some sort of spell – or perhaps he had been the one ensorcelled, his senses dulled and dampened, cut off from what was happening around him. The very air here crackled, every living thing standing out with a vibrancy that kept taking his breath away, even now. He could have walked for hours along the tree-lined boulevards, and set up camp to live in the public parks.

Grantaire took him to museums and art galleries, but the things in there bored him, the unmoving pictures and lifeless statues unsettling him almost as much as the walls and ceilings, and the quiet whispering of the people within. Too often the galleries were grand and echoing, and he rushed ahead to the exit to avoid memories of the Hall of Whispers.

Grantaire never complained about being unable to linger the way ey clearly wanted to, and once under the open sky Enjolras’ nerves would ease. The only ceiling he could stand to be under for any length of time was Grantaire’s. Since helping Grantaire with the curse catchers and improving his attempts to make his own, his senses had grown. Grantaire’s house barely felt solid if Enjolras closed his eyes and stayed still and let his mind drift. There was so much magic woven into its structure that it felt more like they lived inside a giant cord cage than a physical house.

When Enjolras came to know Montmartre well enough to know his own way around, and Paris beyond that well enough not to get truly lost, he began hanging back to walk alongside Grantaire instead of in front of him. The weather had finally snapped, forcing Enjolras to wear shoes like the other humans, buttoned up in a coat with a scarf and gloves. Grantaire hunched over with every gust of wind, eir curls grown long enough to lift into the air and tumble and tangle. Enjolras kept his hands curled into fists in his pockets, resisting the urge to reach out and touch.

The trees were stripped nearly bare now, the leaves dark and soaked against the roads and pavements and cobbles, collecting in wet clumps in gutters. The sky hung low and heavy most days, thick grey clouds always promising rain. Grantaire complained and carried an umbrella, but one of Enjolras’ favourite things was to turn his face to the sky just as the first drops fell. He could always tell when it was about to happen. Sometimes he would warn Grantaire, but sometimes he would just laugh when ey was caught by surprise.

The shops and restaurants were so much hotter and brighter now, like glass-fronted coals glowing against the chill and rain. Grantaire took him to nicer shops, proving that humans could dress as well as Bahorel if they chose to. The bleaker the weather became, the brighter Enjolras tried to grow, countering the blustery cold and lessening daylight with summer colours, reds and blues and yellows standing out in all the grey.

The day Grantaire took him to see Musichetta, he was wearing purple. A pale blue shirt under a purple jacket and scarf and his red coat, with dark yellow jeans. He wanted to look good for Grantaire’s friend – banshees were small in number, but made up for that with their power. Naturally inclined to magic, they were also strong as ogres, and fiercely protective of each other.

“Chetta’s usually in Faerie with aer lovers,” Grantaire told him as they walked, heading to Musichetta’s apartment across the city. They could have gone through Grantaire’s mirror, but the rain was holding off, so Enjolras’ plea that they walk had gone answered.

“Other banshees?” Enjolras watched Grantaire from the corner of his eye.

“No – Joly’s a mutt like me, and Bossuet’s a Pooka. Vae’s been kicked out of four different courts, through no fault of vaes own I must add.”

The tales of their meetings took them right to Musichetta’s door, Enjolras’ attention diverted for once from his surroundings to focus entirely on Grantaire.

Musichetta lived in a shabby-looking apartment building, graffiti on the parts of the walls that hadn’t crumbled to reveal old brickwork underneath. “Ae’s got roots in this place,” Grantaire explained as they went inside. “Ae’s been coming back here for decades.”

“Why here?”

Grantaire shrugged. “You’d have to ask.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“Then don’t.” Grantaire laughed suddenly and bumped their shoulders together. “Relax, ae’s a very friendly banshee.” Ey strode ahead and Enjolras touched his shoulder, still for a moment before he could follow.

Of course Musichetta lived on the top floor, and aer door opened just before Grantaire could knock. Eir hand was still in the air when there was a crack of laughter, and ey was pulled into a tight hug. Musichetta looked very human, dark-skinned and tall and wide, strong enough to pull people apart with no trouble at all. Enjolras almost flinched when aer eyes found his.

No human would have eyes like that, ever-shifting and changing, colours and shapes whirling and dancing. Musichetta looked at him, and aer eyes became dark vortexes ready to swallow him up. He tipped forward without meaning to, and one of Grantaire’s hands was suddenly pressed against his chest, the other coming to rest on the back of his shoulder.

“Easy,” ey murmured, and Enjolras snapped his eyes away from Musichetta’s with a shiver. Grantaire drew away, the places where eir hands had been cold and empty without em.

“Hm.” Musichetta pursed aer lips and beckoned them in. “I have cake. Come in and be welcome.”

It was dark in aer apartment, scarves and wraps hung up over the windows with little shaded lamps dotted around on tables, chairs, and floor. Grantaire got a cushion to sit on the floor, so Enjolras followed eir example and sat as close to em as he could.

“How’re Joly and Bossuet?” Grantaire called, lounging back with a grin. Musichetta snorted over in the little kitchenette. The outside of the building may have been shabby, but Musichetta’s apartment was spotless.

“Bossuet nearly ended up trading away years of servitude in a card game. I told vaer, if you’d been there you would’ve knocked some sense into vaes head.”

“Vae’s safe?” Grantaire asked, suddenly grave.

“Would I be here otherwise?” Musichetta came over with a tray, setting it carefully on the floor in front of them before pulling up aer own cushion. Aer bare feet and ankles were draped in silent jewellery, the chains and bells not even rattling as ae moved. “Damned fool. Joly was beside emself.”

“I can imagine.” Grantaire sighed and sat up properly.

The tray was heavily laid; plates, cups, and little eggcup-sized glasses vying for space with a teapot, a cake, and a tall bottle in a beaded cover. Musichetta handed them each one of the tiny glasses and opened the bottle. “We’ll drink to my Pooka’s continued health.” The liquid ae poured into the glasses was clear, but Enjolras doubted it was water.

“To Bossuet.” Grantaire lifted eir glass, and Enjolras copied, stomach fluttering as they all clicked their glasses together. Grantaire and Musichetta downed their drinks in one gulp, tossing their heads back in synchronisation. Enjolras took a deep breath and did the same. Of course, being a second behind the other two meant they had the perfect view of his screwed-up face and teary eyes as he forced himself to swallow. Whatever Musichetta had given him was hot and unpleasant, the taste in his mouth foul enough to make him want to bring up everything in his stomach. 

Grantaire’s hand landed on his back, steadying between his shoulder blades. Enjolras closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. “Have some cake.” Musichetta’s voice betrayed aer amusement.

The fruity sponge took away the burning, and Enjolras leaned closer to Grantaire to make up for the loss of eir hand when ey took it away to eat. The tea was strong and dark, but welcome after the first drink. Grantaire and Musichetta chattered away about their friends – only when Bahorel’s name came up did Enjolras lift his head.

“Enjolras looked like a pauper before Bahorel got vir hands on him.” Grantaire nudged him, grinning, and Enjolras smiled, his stomach settled enough for the fluttering in it to be pleasant. “Apparently I’m forbidden from taking him shopping again.”

“A bargain you didn’t keep, I see,” Musichetta smirked. Grantaire shrugged with eir whole body, shoulders and palms lifted into the air.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Enjolras told em, and Grantaire beamed.

“See? I’m not as bad as all that.”

When they left, Musichetta kissed their cheeks and foreheads, and whispered something in Grantaire’s ear that made eir smile falter. But ey nodded and gave aer greetings to pass onto Joly and Bossuet, and they made their way out of the building in silence.

“What was that drink?” Enjolras asked outside, the cold air glorious against his face.

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “Faery spirit. Goblin-brewed, if I had to guess. It’s called tlachka.”

“T-tlachka,” Enjolras tried, and Grantaire nodded.

“Tlachka. It’s sometimes customary to knock back a glass to bless a gathering of friends. Drink a whole bottle at once and you’ll see the universe unravel.” Ey laughed.

“What did Musichetta tell you before we left?” Enjolras added a moment later, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Grantaire hesitated. “I’ll tell you at home.”

It wasn’t clear when _home_ had become Grantaire’s house rather than Lamarque’s meadow. It began to rain just as they turned onto their road, and Enjolras laughed when Grantaire ran for the door rather than walk in the wet.

“It’s nice,” he teased when he came inside, shaking water from his hair.

“It’s cold,” Grantaire huffed, the way ey always did. Eir expression changed though, becoming hesitant. “Maybe we should go upstairs. Or…I don’t know, the kitchen.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “What’s in the kitchen?”

“Nothing, but I need to tell you something.” Grantaire sighed and wrapped a hand round one of eir horns, tugging eir head down.

“Is this about what Musichetta told you?”

“It is.”

Enjolras moved towards the doorway. “Kitchen then? Is it bad, what ae told you?”

“No.” Grantaire followed him through. “Not bad. You might…want to sit down, maybe.”

Worry coiled through Enjolras’ chest, and he turned to face Grantaire. “You said it wasn’t bad.”

“It isn’t.” Grantaire bit eir lip anyway, squinting with one eye the way ey did when ey didn’t want to say something. “It’s not _bad_ , exactly.”

But it was serious, that much was clear. “Tell me,” Enjolras said, unease chasing away the pleasure from the rain.

“Musichetta…banshees, you know they…” Grantaire leaned against the counter and rubbed eir eyes. “They’re gifted, their vision – they see to the heart of things. They can see a being’s true nature.”

“I know that.” Enjolras couldn’t copy Grantaire’s posture. He had to grab his elbows, too tense to move from his spot in the middle of the kitchen. “So what?”

“So ae saw you.” Grantaire gave him an apologetic look from under eir hair. “You’re not what you think you are, Enjolras.”

“What does that mean?” His fingernails were going to leave grooves in his skin at the rate he was going, digging them in hard enough to really hurt. “I’m not what I think I am, what does that mean?”

“You’re not human,” Grantaire told him, quiet in the face of Enjolras’ raised voice.

Enjolras blinked, uncomprehending. “What…yes I am. Of course I’m human, I’m a changeling – look at me!”

“You have human in you, but you’re not pure human.”

“Yes I am,” Enjolras repeated, anger flooding in to replace his fear. “Why would you say that? I’m human, I’ve always been human, why are you lying?”

“I’m not.” Grantaire stepped forward, and stopped as though slapped when Enjolras took a step back. “Enjolras –”

“Why would you lie about this?” Enjolras frowned at him, trying to understand. “Why would Musichetta?”

“Ae wouldn’t, and neither would I. Enjolras –”

“Prove it then.” Enjolras spat the words. It had to be a lie, it had to be, or so many other things would come crashing down. He had to be human, his whole life had been built on that, on the possibility of one day being able to join them. Lamarque had told him so much about humanity’s strengths, their triumphs, Enjolras was so proud… “Prove it. I don’t believe you.” 

Grantaire looked down, then met his eyes gravely. “The bracelet Gavroche gave me. Do you remember it?”

“Yes.” Enjolras hesitated though. “It’s cursed.”

“If you’re affected, I’ll be able to break the curse and heal you, I promise. But you won’t be affected.”

Enjolras scowled and stalked out. “Yes I will. I’m as human as everyone else beyond these walls.” Bahorel and Musichetta lived beyond these walls, part of his brain reminded him. “I’m not fey,” he muttered, going quickly up the stairs. “I’m human.”

“Musichetta saw the truth,” Grantaire said from behind him, and Enjolras slammed his hand into the wall, something burning in his chest.

“I don’t care what ae saw! Ae’s lying!”

“I took you to see aer because I suspected it, Enjolras,” Grantaire pleaded as they went up and up and up. “Bahorel saw it too – no human should have been able to get into vir dwelling, and you see through every glamour in front of you.”

“I’ve got the Sight!” Enjolras protested. “It’s not –”

“Sighted humans don’t see through things the way you do, as if the glamours aren’t even there. How do you always know when it’s about to rain?”

Enjolras couldn’t answer that, real fear sparking deep in his gut.

“How are you so good at magic?” Grantaire added, softer. “ _Fey_ magic, Enjolras. You don’t have a human’s style – you copy exactly what I do, and you pick it up so much faster than a human would.”

“I don’t care!” Enjolras started to run, desperate to get to the bracelet and prove he was human once and for all. “I’m not like you! I’m human, Lamarque told me!”

“Lamarque told you no humans could do magic at all,” Grantaire reminded him, and Enjolras hit the wall again, fist making a dent.

“Shut up!”

Grantaire’s room was a mess, the bracelet lost who-knew-where, and Enjolras stood at a loss until Grantaire followed him in and went over to a workbench. The bracelet glinted in eir hand a moment later, black and gold metal flashing. Enjolras crossed the room in two large steps, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before taking it.

It was cold against his clammy palms and fingers. Such a simple thing. It opened on a hinge, the little flowers shining against the black, and he could feel the cruel buzzing of the curse in the air around it. Such a simple little thing. It would show him his desires and drive him mad with them. If he was human.

That one _if_ sent desperate anger flashing through him, toes to head, and he snapped the metal bracelet around his wrist. The only sounds in the room were his breathing and Grantaire’s. Nothing else was happening. His voice shook when he asked, “How long does it take?”

“It’s immediate.” Grantaire sighed. “I’m sorry, Enjolras.”

“It must be broken.” _Please let it be broken_. “Grantaire –”

“You can tell it’s not.” Grantaire tugged eir horn, then pushed the hand through eir hair. “It’s not working because –”

“Don’t!” Enjolras clutched at the bracelet, willing it to work, even as a lump rose in his throat because Grantaire was right, but how could ey be right? “You…you changed the curse, didn’t you?”

“Enjolras –”

“Tell me you changed it, please.” He was begging, part of him realised. Begging Grantaire for one last chance, that one last sliver of hope that everything hadn’t always been a lie. “Please.”

Grantaire looked miserable, hands twisting in front of em now instead of in his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not true.” Enjolras tore the bracelet from his wrist and threw it across the room, the lump in his throat burning. “I’m human, I’m not like you, I’m nothing like you!” The Lark twins kicking the door open and thrusting the spear through Lamarque’s neck. The beating he’d taken from Alveré’s guards in the forest when they’d found him, the humiliation of being presented to the Hall of Whispers and ignored even there, unimportant and as good as invisible. Fey justice – a crystal mace ready to shatter his skull. “I’m not fey!” He pressed too-hard fingers across his eyes, vision blurring. “I’m not a monster.”

Grantaire said nothing, and Enjolras didn’t know if that was kind or cruel, but it drove him from the room just the same. He’d been hungry when they came in, but his stomach was churning now, his throat aching from tears that burst out in ugly sobs when he closed the door of his bedroom and crawled into bed.

He wasn’t human. The thought drove a spike of pain through his chest, and he screamed into his pillow. He wasn’t human, and never had been.

Lamarque had lied.

To tell him humans had no aptitude for magic had been one thing, but this was bigger, this was _everything_. It was Enjolras’ whole life.

Not human. He wasn’t human.

His thoughts kept repeating it, memories of the worst things he had seen replaying in a nightmarish montage of blood and fear and pain. To be fey was to be like them – like Alveré, cold and cruel on a marble throne. Like the guards, laughing and threatening and slamming their fists and elbows and feet into him. The beating in the forest – he had tried to be brave and strong and proud, tried to be what Lamarque had told him humans were, and they had made him scream and beg for it to stop. That’s what faeries were.

Like the Lark twins and their laughter, and Lamarque’s death at the tip of one of their spears. Lamarque vaerself, lying to Enjolras all his life. Lie after lie after lie. How much had been true? Had any of it? He’d been told leaving the meadow would broach its security and bring solitary outlaws and murderers down on their heads. He’d been told that he would one day walk among the humans as one of them.

Their little homes and families and lives were closed to him forever now. Like iron doors closing one after another, all of his tentative, hopeful daydreams were obliterated. He would never have human friends, never earn or use human money, never have a place in their society, their community. He would never have a happy, human existence, free from faeries and their toxic presence.

Enjolras cried himself into exhausted sleep, weeping all over again for the loss of his old, uncomplicated life, and all the lies it had been made of.

When he woke in the morning, his face was swollen, his eyes sore, his skin colder than it had ever been before. He didn’t get up until the light from his window was strong, grey and white clouds reminding him of the Pale Court. The house seemed empty as he drifted through it, both echoingly huge and small enough to make him want to scream.

He stared at the fruit in the kitchen for long minutes until the cold seeped up through his bare feet and set him shivering, and then headed up to Grantaire’s room. It was warm in there at least – the heat washed over him halfway up the stairs, and he had to lean against the wall and close his eyes for a moment, tears threatening to rise again for no reason he could pinpoint.

Grantaire must have heard him coming – ey was already facing the stairs with a sombre expression when Enjolras rose into the room. For a long moment, there was only silence. When in doubt, Grantaire’s strategy was to say nothing, Enjolras knew. It was eir closed mouth that gave him the confidence to speak first.

“What am I? If I’m not human –” He faltered, swallowed and lost his voice. He sounded so much more fragile than he’d expected, still croaky from crying.

Grantaire’s lips parted, but it was a moment before ey spoke. “You’re like me, I think.” Ey lowered eir eyes. “A mutt.”

“But what…” Enjolras stepped forward, and when Grantaire sank into a crouch, he sat cross-legged opposite em. “You have troll in you,” Enjolras persisted. “What’s in me?”

“A big dose of human, at a guess.” Grantaire copied Enjolras’ position and kept eir eyes on the floor. “There’s no way to know for sure.”

“Couldn’t Musichetta know?” His voice wobbled, and he dug his nails into his palms to try and keep it steady. “With aer eyes?”

“Ae said you weren’t fully human, but ae didn’t say anything about other bloodlines in you. It’s not something you can see, I don’t think. Unless there are obvious clues.” Ey tapped one of eir horns. “It’s all a guessing game. To look at myself, I’d judge there’s some human in me too. But most likely I’m a mutt born from mutts, born from mutts.”

“Like me?” Enjolras swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“You’ve obviously got a lot more human in you than me. Maybe as much as a quarter, or a half.”

“But what else?” Enjolras rubbed his hands over his face to try and hide the way they were shaking. “What else is in me?”

“Some kind of outdoor fey, I’d judge, going by how much you prefer it to being inside. Spriggan, maybe? Dryad?”

He was going to cry again if this went on. Enjolras scrambled to his feet and looked away when Grantaire followed suit. “I need, I want to…” He hesitated.

Grantaire spread eir hands. “Anything.”

“I want to break things.” So childish, but he needed to do _something_. When he looked at Grantaire, ey was smiling.

“Easy. Follow me.”

Grantaire led the way down to the kitchen and the pantry, and there opened a hatch in the floor that had previously been invisible. When Enjolras looked, he saw that it was full to the edge with empty bottles. 

It took them several journeys to take them all upstairs to the third floor, to the empty stone room Enjolras had never seen Grantaire use. Once they were all there, Grantaire stepped back and gestured. “Go ahead. I can leave if you like.”

“I don’t mind.” Enjolras didn’t hesitate or pause to judge distance – he simply grabbed the nearest bottle and hurled it at the wall. The smash wasn’t as good as he’d hoped, shards of glass skidding across the floor in large pieces. He bent and grabbed another, and threw that as hard as he could, picking up another as soon as it had left his hand.

Grab, throw, smash, grab, throw, smash, over and over, a rhythm of breaking glass and another sound – it took him several seconds to realise he was crying again, but he couldn’t stop. The floor at the other end of the room was covered in broken glass, clear, green, red, purple, all manner of colours winking back at him.

The sudden loss of bottles meant a collapse. He fell to his knees and curled over, consumed by memories of Lamarque. Everything he’d believed in was now just empty words and promises, and it was like something had been ripped out of his chest, leaving an open wound behind.

Grantaire knelt next to him, eir hand resting so, so lightly on Enjolras’ shoulder. It was more than enough for Enjolras to fall into him, aching just to feel some warmth against him, a comforting hand. Grantaire stroked his hair and shifted so Enjolras wasn’t crushing eir legs but bundled against eir chest instead.

Ey still said nothing, but Enjolras quieted after a few minutes anyway, soothed by the embrace. He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever held him like this before. Surely Lamarque never had.

“Why would vae lie?” Once the question was out, Enjolras couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been asked. “What did vae want from me?”

Grantaire combed gentle fingers through his hair and sighed. “I don’t know, Enjolras. If vae ever had a purpose in mind, there’s no way to find out now.”

“I was going to be a proper human.” Enjolras hiccupped and wiped his eyes. “I was…vae was teaching me, vae said I’d be ready to join them and live as a real human one day…”

“Well, now you get to decide for yourself.” Grantaire’s arm around him squeezed gently. “You could live as a human if you wanted. Or you could live as a faery. Or you could do both. It’s your decision.”

Enjolras lifted his head and cast sore eyes over the sparkling wreckage he’d created. “Where did all the bottles come from?”

“Me. I mean, um. I drank the contents.”

“Why were they hidden?”

Grantaire sighed. “Because I was embarrassed.”

Enjolras leaned into em. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine.” Ey squeezed Enjolras again, and Enjolras closed his eyes and huddled closer. Part of him was mortified at showing such weakness, but the rest of him was cold and aching, so he clung to Grantaire’s stable warmth.

It was Grantaire’s silence that gave Enjolras the permission, almost, to speak. He told Grantaire about Lamarque’s lessons, the litany that humans were better than faeries, the cruel histories of the courts. He told Grantaire about the Lark twins, about how he and Lamarque had been outside when the boundaries were breached. They had run inside to hide, but the Larks had been so much faster. Lamarque had time only to turn around when the door was kicked open, and then the spear was through vaes neck. Enjolras had been frozen, staring in horror as the spear was pulled back, and plunged into Lamarque’s chest when the old elf collapsed to the floor.

That he had been able to escape the Lark twins must have been fey magic, he saw now. He’d thought it was panic that had spurred him out of the window and onto the roof, leaping down onto the lawn and through the burning, screaming orchard. The flames hadn’t touched him, but the Lark twins hadn’t been able to follow. And later in the forest, he’d found them. Overheard them complaining about his missing tracks. They’d drunk, and slept in turns, and Enjolras had waited for the one on watch to nod before leaping from the darkness and driving a sharpened stick into vaes throat. For Lamarque. The other had woken too slowly, and Enjolras had put the fire between them and felt liquid flame in his veins as he twisted to avoid a spear and tackled the twin to the ground, the elf’s own blade jumping to his hand as if eager to kill its owner.

He’d wandered the forest, lost and scared, and been found by Pale Court guards. Grantaire’s arms around him tightened when he told em of the beatings, there and at the Pale Court.

“We were learning about the ocean,” Enjolras whispered. “The day the Lark twins came. We’d just started. Why was vae teaching me all that? What was the point?” He pulled away from Grantaire and rubbed his eyes.

“I can’t give you answers,” Grantaire said quietly. “But if there’s anything else I can do, just ask.”

Enjolras looked at em. Grantaire lowered eir eyes, but Enjolras kept looking. Eir hands were folded still in eir lap, eir face carefully blank. If he asked Grantaire to free him now, would ey do it? The question was on the tip of his tongue when he caught sight of the damp patch on Grantaire’s shirt where he had been crying against eir chest.

Asking now would be akin to throwing that kindness back in Grantaire’s face. Enjolras sighed. “What do _you_ want?”

Grantaire looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Me? I…I want lots of things. I want us both to be safe, I want fewer enemies. I want some measure of peace.” Ey got to eir feet and offered Enjolras a hand, which he took. “I want far more than I can get, but isn’t that always the way of things?” Grantaire’s smile was tired. “Do you want to help me do the curse catchers?”

Enjolras nodded, and they went down to the kitchen to start from the bottom the way they always did, spiralling up through the house to finally reach Grantaire’s attic, and the views of a rainy, wintery city.

 

Grantaire couldn’t have said whether ey was expecting it or not when a couple of weeks later, in the middle of one of their curse catcher cleansings, Enjolras said quietly, “I don’t want to be a _he_ anymore.”

Grantaire hung the curse catcher back in the window of Enjolras’ bedroom and nodded. “What would you prefer?”

“I’m a mutt, aren’t I?” Enjolras looked down. “So I’m an ey.”

Grantaire had to stop emself putting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, fingers curling away. “You don’t have to, you know,” ey said.

“It would be a lie to use human pronouns now.” Enjolras stared out of the window. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to. And you…you’re the only other person like me I’ve met, and I like you more than anyone else.” Grantaire bit down hard on eir lip, trying to ignore the happy flutter those words gave em. “I like ey and em better than any other options.”

“Ey and em and eir it is then,” Grantaire said softly. “Like me.”

Enjolras gave em a smile, small and shy, and Grantaire had to look away or risk doing something foolish.

Enjolras reflected eir state of mind in eir clothes. Ey’d even taking to wearing a few of the things Grantaire had given em when ey first came, mixed in with eir newer, nicer garments. But there was always a patch of darkness now, even when they went out, braving the growing cold so that Enjolras could stand under the sky and be a little more at ease.

Grantaire loathed the cold and wet, but tried to keep eir shivers to emself, biting back eir complaints when the wind cut through em like knives and focusing instead on Enjolras’ contentment. Besides, they had to go out almost daily now anyway, now that the garden had sensed winter beyond the walls and wilted accordingly. Enjolras would only eat the freshest produce humans could give, and soon they were going to run out of glamoured money.

“We’ll have to go to the Market soon,” Grantaire told em. Enjolras had taken to spending more and more time up in Grantaire’s room, sprawled across the floor with a book, or getting Grantaire to show em how ey broke and built the curses and charms on the various bits of jewellery scattered along the workbenches.

(The bracelet that had proved Enjolras’ true nature was hidden in a drawer. Montparnasse had said Grantaire could take eir time, after all.)

“What Market?” Enjolras looked up at em, flicking eir hair out of the way with one hand.

“Faery Market. Goblin Market. The Circus itself.” Grantaire made a face. “I’d rather not take you, but that’d be too dangerous. Taking you isn’t exactly safe either, but I think it’s the better option. I hope so anyway.”

Enjolras sat up properly, clearly intrigued. “I heard the Market has strict rules and laws. No conflict allowed.” Ey never said Lamarque’s name anymore. It was always ‘I heard’, or ‘apparently’.

“In theory, that’s true. But you can challenge people, and fight for your rights if need be.” Grantaire tugged eir horn, wrinkling eir nose. “If someone challenged me…I’d almost certainly have to answer. In the pits, the winner takes all. You’d be included in that, lo –” Ey choked off the last word, flushing, but Enjolras ignored eir slip, the way ey always did.

“Why do we need to go to the Market then?” Enjolras asked after a moment. “If it’s so dangerous?”

“I’m running out of coin,” Grantaire said simply. “Glamours cost, and we’ve been going out so often I’ve used all mine up. So I need more of that, and the coin to buy it. Which brings me to another small dilemma.”

“What?”

“I earn by entertaining. While I’m performing, I have to be totally focused, so that would be the ideal time for anyone nearby to get you.” Ey’d had nightmarish visions about those potential scenarios – finishing a set to raucous applause, turning round and being unable to find Enjolras, or seeing eir body slumped lifeless on the ground, blood pouring from a cut throat or a stab to the belly.

“I’ll stay close,” Enjolras offered, brow wrinkled. “Really close.”

“In the act itself would be safer. Just so I can keep an eye on you.”

“In the act?” Enjolras blinked, lips parted. “As…what, your partner?”

“Hark at your ambition,” Grantaire teased, and laughed when Enjolras’ cheeks pinked. “Assistant first, then partner if you’re actually any good.”

“It’s only illusions,” Enjolras muttered. “How hard can it be?”

“The fire isn’t an illusion, sweetheart. Enjolras.” Ey cleared eir throat. “We’ll start off slow, but I imagine you’ll take to it well enough if your progress in other areas is any indication. This is very different to curses though,” ey added. “Those are subtle and slow. This will be much faster and harder and more physical.”

“Where did you learn it? Who taught you?”

“I learned a bit off a pixie I used to know – Floreal. Ix was the fastest caster I’ve ever met. So ix taught me a little, in return for fair payment, and –”

“What was the payment?”

Grantaire stuttered to a halt, face burning. “Um. Well, uh, body work.” Enjolras’ mystified expression demanded further explanation, and Grantaire covered eir face with a hand. “When ix needed or, um, wanted something from another body, I’d give it.”

“Something like what?”

Earth and sky. “Like sex.” Grantaire rubbed eir eyes. “Or some pain, maybe a bit of blood – pixies are partial to blood every now and then.”

“Pain?” When Grantaire looked, Enjolras’ eyes were wide, the book forgotten on the floor.

“It’s a form of trade. Artisans looking to improve, people just wanting to hear someone cry a bit. It was never anything too bad,” ey assured Enjolras. “A few cuts here and there, nothing more. It was fair trade for what ix gave me.”

“Illusionary instruction for torture.” Enjolras’ voice was hard, and Grantaire sighed.

“People like what they like. I gave what I had in order to get further. What else could I have done? Floreal and I were friends by the end.”

“Were?”

“Pixies don’t live long, compared to other faeries.” Grantaire gave em a small smile. “Ix had a good life. I’m glad I got to have a part in it.”

“Even though ix hurt you?”

Grantaire slid down to sit opposite em. “First, not all pain has to be bad. It’s just a different form of sensation, that’s all. Second, ix didn’t just hurt me. Ix taught me, and asked other things of me that weren’t painful at all.”

Enjolras frowned, but nodded. “You were telling me how you learned to entertain.”

“Better I show you. You pick things up better with demonstrations, and the only time you’ve seen me in action was in the Hall of Whispers.” Grantaire got to eir feet and gave Enjolras a hand up, making emself let go as soon as Enjolras was on eir feet.

It was no surprise that Enjolras was a fast learner when it came to illusions. What had taken Grantaire weeks and months of practice and failed attempts, Enjolras picked up in days, sometimes even hours. The more ey learned, the better ey seemed to get. It would’ve been annoying if watching Enjolras improve hadn’t been such a pleasure.

What ey lacked in patience, ey made up for in raw power. Ey still got stuck on slow-moving, detailed illusions, but bright flashes of brilliance came naturally to em. Still, Grantaire was hesitant to introduce em to fire until ey was sure Enjolras was ready.

“Start small,” ey warned, showing Enjolras how to kindle a flame from the air. “It’s similar to unreeling a line of power along the thread of a curse catcher, but harder, because fire’s so much more volatile. Think of it like a tap – you have to keep it open just enough. You have to have control. And you have to know how to cut it off quickly. Fire can turn on you and suck your power out if you’re not careful.”

“Has that ever happened to you?” Enjolras asked, eyes bright. They were sitting opposite each other, cross-legged in the empty third floor room. The glass had been swept away, and it was the only place they could practice with open flames.

Grantaire nodded and rolled up the legs of eir trousers. Both legs were hairless to the knee, where it all been burned off. The burns were old, but the skin was still a darker brown than the rest of eir skin, the green tinge replaced by twists of faded red. Enjolras’ smile was gone when Grantaire looked, and ey reached out with slender fingers to hover above the puckered skin. “When did this happen?”

“When I was first learning.” The words to tell Enjolras ey could touch were on the tip of Grantaire’s tongue, but ey held them back. Enjolras’ fingers fell anyway, skating lightly along one of Grantaire’s shins. Grantaire couldn’t feel a thing, the nerve endings fried away years ago. “I overreached myself. I tried to do too much too soon, and the fire started to turn on me. I panicked and directed it downwards, and set my own bloody trousers on fire.” Ey snorted and pulled away, hiding eir legs again. “I’ve never been particularly bright.”

Enjolras frowned, but let it go. “What do you mean by the fire turning on you?”

“Fire’s as alive as earth, water, and air. And when fire burns, it consumes. At its core, fire is hungry – when you’re creating it, you’re feeding it your own power. If you’re not careful and very respectful, the flames will get greedy and drag your power out against your will. It’s not a pleasant experience.”

Enjolras scooted closer. “Show me.”

Grantaire held out eir palm. “It’s sometimes easier to start by creating friction, like this.” Ey snapped eir fingers and sparked a flame, which disappeared as soon as ey stopped feeding it. “With practice, it’ll come easily. You just need to know the right feeling for it. Like invisible flint – friction in the air, pushing things together to start it off.” Another flame burst to life from nowhere, hovering over his fingertips. “Like that. Start with your fingers and move from there.”

“Show me again,” Enjolras commanded, watching closely. Grantaire did, and then Enjolras tried. On eir fourth attempt, ey sparked a flame that vanished as soon as ey cried out in delight. Of course, ey was crestfallen. “How do I make it stay?”

Grantaire stifled a laugh. “Keep feeding it. You gave it a brief burst – you’re good at those. This is much harder. You need to concentrate and keep the flow very small and steady.”

“Small?”

“You don’t want to jump into anything flashy until you can keep a perfect flame on each fingertip for…let’s say ten minutes.”

Enjolras made a disgruntled sound, but obediently set to work on making small, steady flames. Ey had to learn fast how to cut off eir power supply – Grantaire had to pull the flames to emself several times when Enjolras lost control and sent huge jets up to the ceiling. By the end of the hour, Enjolras was sweating and scowling, but ey kept at it. By midday, ey could keep a single flame glowing in the centre of eir palm. By the end of the day, ten little flames burned steadily on each of eir fingertips.

Grantaire could only beam. Ey didn’t mention it had taken em months to get to that same point, and the next day, Enjolras progressed to drawing shapes in the air with lines of flame, driving emself to sweating again to make them stay in place. By the end of the week, Enjolras was copying the motions Grantaire used in eir shows.

“Like this.” Ey swept eir toe along the floor, and bright pink flames flew up merrily in its wake. “Tracing lines again, and making them stay.”

Enjolras nodded and traced eir foot along the floor as well, much slower. Eir own flames were still naturally orange and blue, but eir control was perfect, and Grantaire smiled, turning in circles and tracing lines along the floor. “Now watch. What am I doing?”

“Laying lines.” Enjolras understood immediately. “So you can –” Ey jumped when the lines burst into flame, and laughed. “So you can do that.”

Grantaire grinned, and the fires lifted into the air and span, roaring around em in hoops of colour. Ey narrowed eir eyes and swept eir hands round, shrinking every hoop at once and beginning to juggle em, straining to keep the movements steady. Ey could only keep it up for half a minute, and had to sit down afterwards, panting. “I’m out of practice.”

“Show me,” Enjolras demanded, eager. “How –”

“Control, darling.” Grantaire couldn’t even be bothered to skate over the endearment. “Control and practice.”

Enjolras set to growing and shrinking rings of fire, first one at a time and then together. By the end of that day, ey had mastered that as well, and in the morning Grantaire started teaching em how to pass fire back and forth. An assistant had to be able to assist, ey rationalised. It didn’t hurt that ey had to get closer to Enjolras, hold eir hands and speak in a lower voice.

“Careful,” Grantaire murmured, passing a line of fire to Enjolras and smiling as it changed from pink to orange, feeding off Enjolras’ power rather than Grantaire’s. “Good, now back to me.”

Directing the heat away from the skin was something else Enjolras had picked up quickly, and Grantaire took the fire back with a smooth wave of eir hand. “Perfect,” ey praised, making the flames grow larger before passing it back.

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras was going to be overwhelmed, but then ey laughed and spun in place, the fire dancing around eir shoulders like the mantle of a cloak. Grantaire stepped back to admire the view, and Enjolras caught eir eye and grinned, spinning again. The fire became a snake, playfully circling Enjolras as ey directed its movements with eir hands.

Forget Grantaire – Enjolras would bring in more coin as a solo act. Grantaire was certainly enchanted, and it must have shown in eir face – Enjolras stopped and beamed at em, the flames fading into the air. Grantaire could only grin back, and Enjolras let out a happy breath before crossing the room to em in three large steps.

Grantaire’s lips parted as Enjolras stepped close, closed the distance, and cradled eir face for only half a second before pressing their lips together.

For a moment, Grantaire was frozen. Then Enjolras’ lips moved against eirs, warm and so, so soft, and ey made a soft noise without meaning to, hands finding Enjolras’ sides as ey kissed back, desperate heat bursting to life in the pit of eir stomach.

Enjolras’ hands against eir face were hot, and Grantaire let emself press close for three reckless, glorious seconds before pulling away, stepping back and shaking eir head. “No.” Eir voice was wrecked, but ey couldn’t tell if it was from the kiss or from having to stop it.

Enjolras blinked, hands falling uncertainly to eir sides. “You…you don’t want –”

“No, I do, Enjolras I _do_ , but I can’t.” The heat in eir stomach had been replaced with an ache in eir chest, and Grantaire pushed a hand over eir face, fighting the urge to touch eir wet lips.

“Why?” Enjolras’ lips were wet too, eir forehead wrinkled in hurt confusion.

“You’ve forgotten what we are.” Grantaire closed eir eyes briefly. “I’m not…I can’t be –”

“I don’t –”

“I’m your owner, Enjolras.” The words froze Enjolras in place, and Grantaire sighed. “I can be your friend, or as much of one as possible, but I can’t be your lover.”

Enjolras found eir voice, hands clutching eir elbows. “Why not? If I want this too, if I started it –”

“No, Enjolras. I can’t.”

“But if you want to, why not?” Enjolras frowned, withdrawing into emself. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand?” Grantaire took a step back as well, looking away. “I own you. I _own_ you.”

“You wouldn’t ever hurt me.” The quiet confidence in Enjolras’ voice just made Grantaire want to cry.

“But I could, you see?” ey pleaded. “Enjolras, if I wanted to I could do whatever I wanted to you. I could take you whenever I liked, starve you, beat you, peel the skin from your back and make you lick up the blood! I could turn you into a shell, and you’d never be able to stop me.”

“You wouldn’t.” Enjolras reached a hand out to em, but Grantaire flinched away.

“I could. And I can’t ever forget that. It’s…I won’t be that person, I can’t, I can’t do it again.” Eir hands were shaking, Grantaire realised distantly. “It’s not safe, and you’re not thinking, you don’t understand – you want this now, but what about later? Years from now? When I’m still keeping you enslaved to keep you safe from Alveré, when you start to hate me?”

“I’ll never hate you,” Enjolras said, staring at Grantaire like ey’d become a different person.

“Years from now,” Grantaire insisted. “When you’re sick to death of my endless company, sick of never being able to go anywhere on your own, do anything by yourself. You’ll hate me for keeping you trapped, and nothing I do or say will make it better. Everything we have now will turn sour.”

“You can’t know that.” Enjolras had grown colder during Grantaire’s speech, angry at eir presumptions. “You don’t know any of that for sure.”

Grantaire snarled at em, and was both gratified and sickened when Enjolras flinched away, mask slipping to reveal a sliver of fear. “You see?” Ey glared. “Anything I wanted to do to you, I could. I could break you so thoroughly you’d forget you’d ever been anything but a slave – I could turn you into a creature so scared and desperate you’d break your own bones to please me.” Enjolras shrank back, and Grantaire covered eir face with eir hands. “I can’t ever overstep,” ey whispered, anger gone. “You understand? I won’t, never again, not with a slave.”

“Again?” Enjolras said cautiously, and Grantaire tugged eir head down by eir horns, a hand wrapped tight around each one.

“Ask me on the morrow. And know that I’m sorry.” Ey left without looking at Enjolras, stealing up to eir room and closing the door at the bottom of the stairs for the first time in months.

Ey couldn’t, Grantaire knew. To allow emself to give in now was to invite agony later. Enjolras was a brighter being than ey was – ey wasn’t made for languishing indoors, an enslaved prisoner. Grantaire could see the path returning the kiss would take them down.

They would be happy, for a time. They would be consumed for perhaps a few months, at best, and then they would begin to settle, and Enjolras would chafe at eir restrictions. True happiness could not occur when one party had ultimate power over the other. Every request Grantaire gave could be taken as an order. Enjolras would bristle and snap and either break away as much as ey could while still trapped, or submit to make things easier. Neither outcome was appealing.

Their love wouldn’t last while Enjolras was a slave, Grantaire knew. And by the time ey felt the atmosphere was safe enough for Enjolras’ release, Enjolras would despise em for depriving em of eir freedom for so long. And rightly so.

Grantaire opened eir door the next day, and Enjolras came up in the afternoon. Grantaire was on the floor with a broken necklace spread out in pieces before em, rain pattering gently on the roof above. Enjolras said nothing, so Grantaire began.

“Have I ever mentioned Bamatabois before?”

Enjolras came to sit opposite em, keeping a fair distance. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

“I served em for a year and a day. Ey bought me drinks, and tricked me into service. Ey caught quite a few that way. I was lucky to only have to serve for that long.” Ey ran a finger over one of the necklace’s chains – there were three, with dozens of charmed pendants dangling from the links. “Bamatabois’ trade was slaves. I was more of a servant, with a few others like myself. There was one who seemed kind at first – faer name was Tholomyes. Fae showed me how to tread the line between following Bamatabois’ orders and treating eir slaves well, but fae…there was a slave, called Fantine.”

“Bahorel,” Enjolras said suddenly. “Bahorel mentioned a Fantine, a dancer?”

Grantaire nodded, pained. “Tholomyes picked Fantine as a favourite, and ey fell in love with faer. Ey even had a child…I don’t know what happened to em. There was no room for babes in the train.” Ey slumped and rubbed eir forehead. “Tholomyes liked to use slaves like that. They would fall for faer, and then fae would use them up and discard them. Bamatabois thought it was funny…Fantine…Tholomyes made the deal, fae sold em at a revel, and ey danced till ey died. Tholomyes had a new favourite a week later.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment, then asked, “What does this have to do with yesterday?”

“I had favourites too.” Grantaire closed eir eyes. “Young mutts like me, mostly. They trusted me…I tried…I made friends with some, and then…slaves have to be sold, you see,” ey said miserably. “Bamatabois’ trade, ey made me…if I hadn’t, by my contract I’d be a slave myself, and I couldn’t, I was scared, I was a coward.” Ey couldn’t bring emself to look at Enjolras, the silence damning enough. “I saw what happened to some, and I – there was a sprite who screamed for my help, and I couldn’t do anything, and there was Wrack – Bamatabois made me hand em over, and eir new owner, I knew what was going to happen, and I just…”

Silence, and Grantaire pressed eir fingers into eir eyes, furious. Ey had no right to be upset, never had and never would.

“This is why Gavroche couldn’t believe you took a slave,” Enjolras said quietly. Grantaire could only nod.

“After my service ended, I swore I’d never…it’s so easy to forget that I own you.” Ey finally lifted eir head. Enjolras’ face was blank, and Grantaire’s chest ached fiercely. “I can’t let myself forget it.”

“Does Bamatabois still trade?” Enjolras asked, voice empty. Grantaire had to nod again. “Why didn’t you try to stop em?”

Of all the things Enjolras could have asked, Grantaire had expected that least. “Because I’m a single, solitary faery. I’ve made survival something of a habit by now.”

“Ey still trades now?”

“People are always going to want slaves, Enjolras. If it wasn’t Bamatabois –”

“Don’t you dare say it would be someone else,” Enjolras snapped, the explosion of anger so sudden that Grantaire jumped. They were both quiet until Enjolras asked, frowning, “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

Grantaire looked at em, tired and sad. “Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. I wanted you to like me.”

Enjolras narrowed eir eyes, something like disgust in eir expression. “You’re pathetic.”

Grantaire had known it was coming, but it still hurt. The ache spread up to eir throat, and ey looked away. “I never said I wasn’t.”

The weight of Enjolras’ eyes rested on em a moment longer, then lifted as ey got to eir feet and left without another word. As soon as ey was gone, Grantaire’s face crumpled, misery pulling em down to lie on the floor where ey was.

Ey deserved Enjolras’ hate, ey knew. Hate and scorn and revulsion. It was all Grantaire deserved, but knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

 

Hating Grantaire was much harder than Enjolras had anticipated. Ey’d been so angry and disappointed at the realisation that Grantaire had taken eir freedom at the end of eir service to Bamatabois and fled, not even trying to change anything for those ey’d left behind. But hating Grantaire was so difficult when all Enjolras had was good memories of em.

At least the sudden estrangement meant that ey understood some of what Grantaire had meant when ey’d tried to explain why ey and Enjolras couldn’t be lovers. Enjolras was desperate to go outside, but the thought of asking Grantaire for it turned eir stomach. The continued confinement felt like punishment, and Enjolras stared out of the windows for hours every day, desperate to go out on eir own.

Even in a disagreement where Grantaire was in the wrong, ey still held all the power. Ey was proving eir own point, simply by doing nothing, and it made Enjolras want to set the whole damn house alight.

And still through all that, ey couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to kiss Grantaire again, and for the embrace to last longer than a few seconds. Imagining kissing Grantaire for minutes on end, hours, days, together in Grantaire’s bed, exchanging smiles over meals and books, imagining being allowed to touch Grantaire properly.

Enjolras dreamed of Grantaire naked, spread below em and moaning Enjolras’ name. Ey woke to soiled sheets, fury and desperation so inextricably mingled ey couldn’t even begin to tease them apart. To be able to go outside for just a day to escape would…not be enough, if Enjolras was honest with emself. A day was not enough. Ey wanted more. Ey wanted freedom.

But Grantaire would rather drive Enjolras into hating em than set em free and see em killed. It might almost be romantic, if it didn’t make Enjolras want to claw eir own skin off and scream emself hoarse, and possibly stab Grantaire in the bargain.

Ey considered the possibility more now than ey had even in the beginning. Ey was more of a match for Grantaire now – ey was better with the fire, at least – and killing Grantaire would set em free by default.

But every time Enjolras considered it seriously, eir heart shrank. No matter how much ey hated Grantaire at the moment, ey loved em more. Which just made the whole mess even worse.

In the end, it was Grantaire who approached em. In the evening, while Enjolras was in the kitchen with a mug of tea, staring out of the window at the people outside. Ey heard Grantaire come in, and didn’t turn when ey spoke. “It’ll be Christmas tomorrow. A human winter festival. Everything’ll be closed, everyone’ll be inside. We…the city will be basically empty, so if you wanted…”

Enjolras had to put the mug down or risk dropping it, so relieved at the prospect of going outside eir hands shook. “Please.”

In the window, Grantaire’s reflection bowed eir head, and ey left Enjolras alone.

They went out the next day while dawn was still breaking, wrapped up against the icy cold with their breath clouding the air. Grantaire walked two steps behind Enjolras, and Enjolras made no move to hang back or encourage em forward until they reached the steps of the Sacré-Cœur. The sky was pebbled with dark grey clouds, the sun a burnt orange globe on the horizon, peeking out to illuminate them. Enjolras sat, and when Grantaire sat a respectful distance away, a step below, Enjolras moved and settled next to em.

Ey imagined leaning into Grantaire, the weight of Grantaire’s arm around eir shoulders, hugging em close. Ey wondered whether a kiss now would be cold, Grantaire’s lips and tongue chilled by the frosty morning. Ey wasn’t allowed to find out, so they just sat in silence while the sun rose.

They walked side by side after that though, exploring the novelty of abandoned city streets in comfortable silence. They found one open shop, and paused to buy lunch with some of the last of Grantaire’s glamoured money. After a quick check to make sure no one was looking, Grantaire conjured a little fire to warm eir hands, and nodded for Enjolras to do the same. Ey felt warm enough, but did it anyway for the sheer pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said quietly as they walked back to the house.

Enjolras nodded, and opened eir mouth to reply when Grantaire’s arm jumped out and hit em in the chest, stopping em short.

There was a faery in the street ahead, and all of the day’s pleasure vanished in an instant as Grantaire slid eir arm through Enjolras’, gripping tight enough to hurt. “Hale,” ey called. The faery – an elven spriggan, Enjolras saw – crouched, and Grantaire hissed.

Enjolras felt the second faery behind them before ey turned to check, and ey was already pushing Grantaire out of the way as the knife flew. It skittered onto the cobbles further up the street, and Enjolras didn’t even have time to shout before Grantaire had pushed em down and leapt at the faery who had thrown it, a savage sound tearing from eir throat.

The faery – a sprite – almost got out of the way, but Grantaire was too fast, knives already in eir hands. “Fire, Enjolras!” ey cried, and Enjolras spewed flames in a roaring circle around em just in time to ward off the elf-spriggan, who snarled at em as ey staggered back. Enjolras shot fire after faer, blood burning, face twisted with reckless anger. The faery darted around, and Enjolras barely dodged another thrown blade, and danced backwards as the faery drew a short, thin sword.

Fae never got the chance to use it – a knife sprouted suddenly from the side of faer neck, the handle held by Grantaire. Enjolras tried to reign the flames back in, and cried out when ey realised ey couldn’t, the flames driving Grantaire back when ey shouted something and tried to reach out to em.

It was a roaring inferno, and Enjolras fell to eir knees and choked as eir power was sucked out, the fire growing around em, the heat scorching, everything hot and loud. Ey tried to pull it back, but the fire blazed, flames pouring from eir hands and licking up eir arms, the sleeves of eir coat and shirt catching, the fire suddenly searing eir skin. Enjolras couldn’t tell if it was the pain or terror that made em scream.

The flames faded suddenly, drawn away from em, and Enjolras almost sobbed in relief as ey managed to wrestle enough control back to cut off eir power. The fire died, and Enjolras tore eir coat off, choking on smoke. Grantaire helped em up, and Enjolras let em practically carry em the last couple of streets to their home.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asked the moment the door was closed behind em, one hand cupping Enjolras’ jaw, the other trembling as it touched eir shoulder. “Are you burned?”

Enjolras shook eir head and managed to take a deep breath. “You killed them.”

“They were going to kill us.” Grantaire rubbed eir jaw with a thumb and lifted the hand to smooth Enjolras’ hair, panting a little.

“Their bodies…”

“Carrion will find them. Humans won’t see them.”

Enjolras nodded, kept nodding, eyes wide as ey kept going until Grantaire caught eir head with both hands, keeping em still. “It’s okay,” ey said, gentle and firm. “We’re safe. We’re okay now.”

“You took the fire,” Enjolras whispered. Grantaire nodded, stroking hair back from eir face.

“And now we’re safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure if either of them believed that, but ey nodded anyway, and let the illusion settle.

Ey’d never really considered the real danger they were in. Ey knew it was there – the curse catchers still buzzed with angry energy and required daily cleansing – but being attacked like that drove it home the way curse catchers never could. The figure of the elven spriggan in the middle of the road, suddenly appearing in the time it had taken Enjolras to blink, haunted em like a persistent shadow. 

At least now, ey could stand to be around Grantaire. But they couldn’t go back to the way they had been before – there was more silence than laughter, more reading alone than working magic together. Enjolras learned to see Grantaire in glimpses, stolen looks while Grantaire was turned away, eyes averted, face in profile. When Grantaire chanced to look in Enjolras’ direction, ey didn’t meet eir gaze, but followed Grantaire’s example and pretended to look at something else. There was too much honesty in eyes meeting, and the honest truth was that Enjolras still loved em, and ey could tell Grantaire loved em back.

Grantaire never wore fewer than two layers now, grumbling about the cold and Enjolras’ seeming imperviousness to it, and the old clanking radiators alternated between being chilled as the grave and too hot to touch. The attack had put Enjolras off going outside, and Grantaire made no effort to persuade em otherwise.

“Would you go out if I wasn’t here?” Enjolras asked em, the two of them sitting at opposite ends of Grantaire’s bedroom. The radiators in the rest of the house might not work half the time, but Grantaire kept eir own room toasty round the clock.

“I’d go to Faerie,” Grantaire nodded, frowning at an egg-sized pendant in eir lap. The rings of coloured metal were meant to spin, but Grantaire was having difficulty with it. “Go to the Market.”

“I thought you were going to take me?”

“I’ve reconsidered. I should’ve searched their bodies,” ey sighed. “Two together…solitaries don’t work well in teams most of the time.”

“How do you know they weren’t court fey?”

“They’d be Pale Court, and they’d never admit half-bred faeries to their halls.” Grantaire wrinkled eir nose and made a disgusted _tsch_ noise.

“They let you in,” Enjolras pointed out, and eir heart sank when Grantaire’s expression darkened.

“They like to laugh and stare at entertaining little mutts like me, as long as we don’t get ideas above our station. You’ll walk free one day, but I’ll never get back into the Pale Court again. Neither will you, come to that, unless it’s to get your head smashed in with that pretty mace of theirs.” Enjolras had never heard em so bitter. Ey imagined going to kneel in front of Grantaire, tilting eir head up with a hand on eir jaw, kissing em until eir anger melted away. 

Enjolras looked down at eir hands, pale against the pages of the book ey’d been reading, and swallowed eir feelings so ey could speak. “I’m a mutt too.”

“You’re a beautiful one. You could probably get away with calling yourself fae,” Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras ducked eir head, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on eir body. “A faery like you, you _look_ purer than mutts like me.”

Enjolras scowled, and Grantaire met eir eyes for only a second before looking away. “What’s wrong with you?”

“My skin’s too dark, with too much green, I’ve got these bloody things,” ey rapped eir knuckles against one of eir horns, “I’m short, but not small enough to be properly puck-sized, I’ve got too much human in me, and the ultimate insult is my face – I’m ugly, sweetheart. You can’t deny that.”

“I deny it,” Enjolras said simply, lifting eir chin. “You’re a far cry from ugly.”

“You’ve got very different standards to most then,” Grantaire snorted, and Enjolras closed eir book, frowning.

“Ugly is what the Lark twins were. And Alveré.”

“Really?” Grantaire raised eir eyebrows. “Alveré might not be kind, or…well, anything but cold, but if you’re looking for classical elven beauty, look no further. Alveré’s so fucking elevated –”

“Barely anyone even refers to vaer,” Enjolras said acidly, watching Grantaire’s start of surprise. “Why? Vae’s only an elf. An ugly, cruel elf sovereign.” 

Grantaire shook eir head, kneeling up. “Enjolras, don’t.”

“Why, can vae hear me? What more can vae do?”

Grantaire’s hand was over eir mouth before Enjolras could speak another word, and ey went utterly still. Ey forgot how fast Grantaire could move, across the room in under a second. “Don’t,” Grantaire pleaded. “We have Pale Court fey watching this house, don’t bring down more wrath.” Eir hand was cool against Enjolras’ skin, fingers heavy over eir lips, and they stared at each other for a long moment before Grantaire sank back on eir heels, pulling eir hand back.

Enjolras could hear the words Grantaire would say – apologies, insistences that they not touch again, not even look at each other like that again – and leaned forward to cover Grantaire’s mouth with eir own hand, keeping them unsaid. Grantaire’s eyes went wide, and ey inhaled sharply but didn’t move away as Enjolras ducked down and kissed the back of eir hand, their noses just brushing.

Ey might have told Grantaire ey loved em, but what would be the point? Enjolras drew back after one long second and stood up, Grantaire rising to eir feet as well. “I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered before ey could speak. Grantaire just stared, lips parted and eyes still wide. Enjolras made emself look down. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Grantaire sighed, pained. “We can’t –”

The world burst into golden flames, filling Enjolras up with heat and life and light. Everything else vanished, the only thing left the power burning through em, radiating out from eir body in hot waves. Enjolras’ mouth fell open, head tilting back, seeing only _gold, gold, gold._ For a moment, there was the wild thought that ey’d lost control of fire again, but this was completely different. The fire had drained em – this light was filling em up, curling through eir entire body and filling em with heat, strength, ancient power. Ey didn’t even realise eir feet had left the ground until they came back to it, the fire fading so fast ey staggered and would’ve fallen if Grantaire hadn’t caught em.

Enjolras gasped against eir shoulder, skin burning and vision sharper somehow, the world spinning under em. Ey could hear the people in the street outside, ey realised, and hear the water in the pipes in the walls of the house. Ey could even hear the buzz of caught curses from the cages and webs hung in Grantaire’s windows, and it was so _much_ , everything at once, everything so bright and alive it was enough to bring tears to eir eyes. And still the power was in em, caught just below the barrier of eir skin. Like molten gold, heavy and certain.

Grantaire was speaking, babbling. “Enjolras, look at me, please, are you alright? Enjolras? Fuck, say something, are you okay?”

Enjolras took a deep, rattling breath, then another, legs finding purchase again. “I’m okay,” ey said weakly, pulling away from Grantaire’s arms – they weren’t meant to touch, ey’d already pushed too far – “What just happened?”

Grantaire stared at em, eyes fixed on Enjolras’ forehead, where a weight rested where one hadn’t been before. When ey lifted eir fingers, ey found a smooth metal band. It was forgotten when Grantaire went to eir knees and bowed eir head. “The Summer Court has a new sovereign,” ey whispered.

“What?” Enjolras’ breath caught, fear and confusion spinning eir head. “Who?”

Grantaire looked up at em with wide eyes. “You.”

“What?” Enjolras clawed at the band and pulled it off – it was a circle of beaten gold and copper over a dark reddish wood that grew tiny bare branches out of the top. Bare because the season was winter, ey remembered. Ey’d seen this crown in one of Lamarque’s books, an illustration of the crown of the Summer Sovereign. And now ey was holding it. “No.” Ey swallowed and dropped it, backing away. “ _No_.”

Grantaire picked it up and stood, smiling sadly, and Enjolras shook eir head. “No, take it away, burn it, I don’t want it. I’m not a sovereign!”

“It’s the middle of winter,” Grantaire said softly. “The old sovereign died. Maybe this is why Lamarque took you, and why Alveré attacked your home – maybe it’s why I saved you.”

“You didn’t save me for this!” Enjolras cried, bumping eir head on the sloped ceiling and stooping to get further back. “I don’t want it!” But it was eirs anyway, ey knew, a horrible heaviness forming in eir stomach. Eir growing powers, the easy control over fire, the way Grantaire shivered while ey could be comfortable in a t-shirt…and now this new strength in eir blood and body, the certainty that none could stand against em now.

“Enjolras, this is a good thing,” Grantaire insisted, even as Enjolras started to tremble. “Don’t you understand? Alveré can’t touch you now! You’re free.”

“No I’m not.” Enjolras covered eir face with eir hands. “A sovereign is just another kind of slave. I’ll be just as trapped as before. I don’t want it.” Ey snatched the crown from Grantaire’s hands and tried to set it on fire. The flames licked away at it merrily, but the crown remained unharmed. Ey threw it to the ground in despair and looked at Grantaire, whose face had fallen. “I’ll run away. I refuse to be a sovereign.”

How could ey ascend to the position ey’d despised so much all eir life? Even if Lamarque had lied about everything else, ey was right about sovereigns and court fey, Enjolras had seen that much. Grantaire had been railing at them only minutes ago, it felt like.

“It’s too late,” Grantaire murmured. “The crown came to you, Enjolras. And your Hands will already be on the way.” Ey lifted a hand and pressed it to the ceiling, and the web of security around the house dissolved. Enjolras threw emself forward without thinking, shoving Grantaire in the chest.

“What are you _doing?_ ”

“Not resisting.” Grantaire met eir eyes calmly now. “You’re a sovereign, Enjolras.”

“Stop saying that!” Enjolras’ voice cracked, and ey bit eir lap hard to stop it trembling. “I’m not! I’m _not!_ ” It was like learning ey was a faery all over again. Every time ey thought ey had things figured out, eir world imploded all over again. “I’m not,” ey whispered. “I’m a slave, and a mutt, and I’m too young –”

Grantaire hugged em, tightly enough that for a moment ey held Enjolras up, one of eir horns pressing against Enjolras’ cheek. “You’ll be amazing. You’ll be kind and fair and strong, and all the other things good monarchs are supposed to be. Not every court is like Alveré’s, Enjolras.”

A bang made them both jump, Grantaire stepping away to go to the banister. “What was that?” Enjolras asked, fighting the urge to follow simply to be closer to Grantaire.

“Your Hands. Up here!” ey shouted down the stairs. “In the attic!”

The betrayal tore through Enjolras like a blade. “What are you _doing?_ Why are you helping them?”

“Because they’re your Hands,” Grantaire said, as if it was that simple. Perhaps to em it was. Enjolras heard the staccato thud of fast footsteps on the stairs below and shuddered. The Summer Court was among those courts where the sovereigns were aided by a pair of advisors. Enjolras’ mind conjured an image of two elderly faeries, strict and wise like Lamarque, but the footsteps on the stairs were far too fast.

A second later, they were in the room. A naiad and a thistle child, each filled with intent. The thistle child turned nis back to Enjolras and spread nis arms protectively as the naiad hissed and leapt at Grantaire, whose back hit the ground with a horrible thud. “No!” Enjolras shouted, but neither faery so much as looked at em. Grantaire lay still, arms up, as the naiad crouched over em with a spear and hissed again.

Enjolras could just see the spear going through Grantaire’s throat, the way another spear had gone through Lamarque’s, and ey pushed the thistle child out of the way and shouted again. “Get off em! Leave em alone, get off!”

The naiad turned nis head. Water-grey eyes in a tanned face stared, and after a horrible moment when Enjolras was sure ne was going to ignore em and kill Grantaire anyway, ne rose to nis feet and bowed nis head.

At Enjolras’ side, the thistle child took a respectful step back. Ne was a full head taller than nis fellow nymph, the two of them so different to what Enjolras had imagined that for a moment all ey could do was stare. Grantaire sat up very slowly. “I surrender, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear.”

The naiad snarled at em so ferociously that Grantaire shrank back, and Enjolras stepped between them to glare at nym. “Leave em alone.”

The thistle child touched the naiad’s arm and tilted nis head. “We thought you were enslaved by this faery.” Nis voice was soft, at odds with nis appearance. Thistle and holly children were the fiercest looking tree nymphs, the largest and most intimidating. This one offered nis hand to Enjolras, an open palm held between them. There was something about the gesture that Enjolras couldn’t help responding to, and ey placed eir hand in the thistle child’s with only the slightest hesitation. The naiad took eir other hand, and all the panic faded away.

Running water, cool and gentle. The naiad brought the sound of bubbling streams and the rush of wide rivers – inexorable water, steady and endless. Enjolras jumped at the feeling of being tumbled beneath the surface, and the naiad’s laugh echoed through eir head as ey saw the river as ne saw it, the bed and walls smooth or rocky, weeds and sediment clouding the view, fish glinting in and out of sight, the current around em. Safe and exciting at the same time, a place to hide and hunt and play.

Roots drew em up into the bank, into the earth, into the forest. The thistle child’s hand tightened around Enjolras’, and Enjolras’ breath caught as everything in eir body turned hard, turned inwards, became strong. A thorn broke the skin of eir wrist and Enjolras’ breath rushed out in a gasp, leaves flying through the air, wind in the branches, water below the soil, every second lasting an age, every moment full of more power than Enjolras had ever touched in eir life.

They were so much more than advisors. Enjolras’ eyes closed, shoulders slumping, and eir Hands pressed close to take the weight. They were there to listen, to talk, to protect, to love. They didn’t even know em, and already they were ready to die for em. They had known they were Hands for a long time, grown close and wondered together, yearned together for their third. For Enjolras.

Ey opened eir eyes with a sigh, full of warmth and light. Eir Hands smiled at em, and their hands were joined as well. “My name is Combeferre,” said the thistle child.

“And I’m Courfeyrac,” said the naiad.

Enjolras wanted to weep. And if ey did, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would catch em and protect em and keep em safe until ey was ready, ey knew. The deep roots of old forests and the tumbling rush of a wild river. “I’m Enjolras,” ey managed to say, and Combeferre squeezed eir hand, twig-like fingers pressing into Enjolras’ flesh. They had waited for so long, Enjolras understood without a word needing to be said. They needed him, and so did the Summer Court.

“We’re yours,” Courfeyrac promised, and that pulled Enjolras from the fog a little.

“No.” Ey shook eir head, clearing it. “No, you’re your own.”

Combeferre laughed and looked at Courfeyrac. “I told you fae’d be different.”

“Ey,” Enjolras corrected, letting go of their hands and pushing a hand through eir hair.

“Ey,” Courfeyrac repeated, a wicked grin on nis face. “I can’t wait to see the others respond to that. A mutt for the Summer Sovereign.”

A mutt…Grantaire. Enjolras looked around. Grantaire was standing apart from them, head bowed and shoulders hunched. Ey looked up when ey felt Enjolras’ eyes on em, and looked down again just as fast.

“We should go,” Courfeyrac urged, but Enjolras shook eir head.

“I need a moment. Just a minute, alone.” _With Grantaire_ went unspoken, and Combeferre went to the stairs, Courfeyrac following reluctantly.

“Be swift,” ne pleaded. “We need to get back.” But ne followed Combeferre downstairs. Enjolras waited until the door at the bottom clicked shut before speaking, the certainty that had filled em when Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been with em fading.

“Come with me.”

Grantaire sighed, a crooked smile on eir crooked face. “I can’t, Enjolras.”

Enjolras huffed. Ey was sick of _can’t_. “You can. If I’m not your slave…” They could be together. Ey could kiss Grantaire, and Grantaire would kiss em back. They could be happy.

“I won’t bend the knee to any sovereign, sweetheart.” Grantaire smiled, but eir voice was sad. “Not even you.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Enjolras insisted, but Grantaire shook eir head.

“I would. Permanent places at courts go only to ambassadors and court members, and I’d be neither. And you saw the way your Hands treated me.”

Enjolras stepped forward, pleading. “It won’t ever happen again. They’ll like you.”

“Others won’t. I was the _owner_ of their new sovereign – they’ll hate me, Enjolras, and you can’t afford that sort of thing around you so early in your reign.”

Being a sovereign had been the natural step when Combeferre and Courfeyrac had taken eir hands, but when Grantaire said it, it made Enjolras’ stomach roil. “I don’t care,” ey said, desperate and stubborn. “I want you to come with me. Stay with me.” _Please_ , ey begged silently. _If you love me, come with me._ “Don’t leave me.”

Grantaire sighed, dropping the smile. “It’s you who will leave me, and I will leave Paris. I’ve never sought notoriety, and I can’t stay here without you.”

“So come with me!” Enjolras lurched forward, but Grantaire stepped back, shaking eir head.

“Forget about me, Enjolras. I was one unfortunate chapter in your illustrious life, a prelude to better things.”

Enjolras didn’t know whether to scream at em or try to kiss em again. Grantaire solved the problem by making a broken noise and stepping forward again, something in Enjolras’ expression prompting em to pull Enjolras into a tight embrace. “I need to run away for a bit,” ey whispered in Enjolras’ ear. “But I promise I’ll come back. If you still want me then, I’ll be here. But you’d do better to forget me.”

Enjolras growled so ey wouldn’t sob, clinging to Grantaire with fingers bunching eir clothes. A turn of eir head, and Enjolras’ face was against Grantaire’s neck. Ey pressed eir lips to the skin there, never wanting to let go.

Grantaire was the one who untangled emself from Enjolras’ grip. “Go,” ey said, eyes clear. Enjolras opened eir mouth, but a noise from downstairs distracted em – eir new Hands shifting outside the door in front of the stairs, impatient and restless. The Summer Court needed its sovereign to claim the crown soon, or fights would break out. When ey looked back, Grantaire had stepped away, and the moment was gone.

“I won’t forget you,” Enjolras promised, hands clenched. “You’d better come back.”

Grantaire’s smile was a pale, small thing. “If you still want me.” Ey stooped and picked up the crown – Enjolras’ crown – and held it out until Enjolras took it.

“I will,” ey whispered, and Grantaire bowed.

“Till then, then.”

Enjolras left with eir Hands either side of em, Combeferre opening a Gate into Faerie a few streets away. Enjolras refused to look back, and neither of eir companions mentioned the tears in eir eyes.

  

Nine Years Later

 

The house looked the same, at first glance. As Enjolras crept closer, invisible to the humans, ey could see the paint peeling at the edges of the door, and sense the tatters of old, faded spells like dusty cobwebs clinging to the bricks and wood and windows.

They were disturbed, Enjolras felt, and ey took a couple of short breaths before inching closer. Feuilly had told em only an hour ago that Grantaire’s old house had been invaded, and Enjolras tried to keep eir hope holed up in eir chest, but eir hands were shaking.

This, just two weeks after what ey’d done. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

There was nothing to signal Grantaire’s presence, and Enjolras walked up and down the street twice, and even circled around the block to check the other side. Apart from the disturbed remnants of Grantaire’s old security spells, there was nothing. Ey went round to the front again and stared at the door for a long minute before plucking up the courage to approach it. If the intruder wasn’t Grantaire, Enjolras was more than strong enough to fight if necessary.

Ey rapped barely-trembling knuckles on the wood, a flake of old white paint falling from the frame as ey did. The sound reverberated up through the house – Enjolras could sense it, and sense something responding.

It had been so long since ey’d seen Grantaire, ey couldn’t tell whether it was em or not. Even when they had been together, Enjolras’ power had been raw and untrained. Now, ey could feel the stranger approaching from above, from inside, and knew when to step back to allow a little space when the door opened.

Enjolras saw the horns first, eir heart leaping into eir throat. Familiar black curls, shorter than they had been, and a familiar face. Not handsome by most standards, but Enjolras couldn’t stop emself breaking into a huge smile to see it. “It _is_ you.” The words came out breathier than intended, but Grantaire’s mouth was open in surprise, eyes wide, and it was far from an unwelcoming expression. “You came back.”

Grantaire swallowed, seemed to recover emself, and nodded. “I said I would.” Eir voice was deeper than Enjolras remembered, and something ached inside em at the sound. Grantaire looked down and cleared eir throat, a shy smile turning up the corner of eir lips. “I heard a rumour about the Summer Court.”

Enjolras grinned, dizzy. “What Summer Court?”

Grantaire’s answering laugh sent goosebumps racing over Enjolras’ arms. “Indeed. I heard the Summer Sovereign gave up eir crown and destroyed one of the oldest faery courts in existence.”

“Dismantled,” Enjolras corrected. “I dismantled. The structure exists, but the rulers have to be elected now, and there has to be more than one. A council of five.”

“And who sits on this council?” Grantaire leaned against the doorframe, and Enjolras gazed at em as ey replied, taking in eir bare feet, loose blue pyjama bottoms, thin black t-shirt. Human clothes. Was eir skin darker than when ey’d left? The green streaks seemed to stand out more, at least.

“Five faeries who aren’t me. May I come in?” Enjolras met eir eyes and waited, both their smiles gone. After a long moment, Grantaire nodded and stepped back.

“If you wish. The place is a mess – I’ve only been back a few hours. How did you even know I was here?”

“Spies and spells.” Enjolras kept eir eyes on Grantaire as ey backed away to lean against the banisters of the stairs. What had once been a warm, living house had changed to an empty shell, but Enjolras barely glanced at the patches of damp, the cracks in the walls, the cobwebs in the corners. Ey had eyes only for Grantaire, who seemed to have eyes only for the floor. “Grantaire…”

“I haven’t anything to offer you.” Grantaire turned eir head, keeping it ducked. “There’s nothing here but dust and spiders.”

“There’s you.” Nine years ey’d waited. Nine years of sovereignty, of plots and schemes and power games that had made em want to set the world on fire. Nine years of patience, of bribes, threats, and persuasion. Enjolras was sick of waiting, and ey stepped forward with badly concealed urgency. “You said before that we couldn’t be together because I was your slave, and then because I was a sovereign. I’m neither now, and I still want you.”

The bluntness of it struck em a second after the words were out, and Enjolras flushed, looking down as Grantaire looked up. The silence was agonising, and a part of Enjolras wondered dryly where all eir royal deportment had gone. Grantaire’s presence stripped it all away, it appeared. What if Grantaire had found another on eir travels? What if ey’d simply changed eir mind about Enjolras? Just because Enjolras had spent nine years desperate to reunite, it didn’t mean Grantaire had.

“You mean it?”

Enjolras’ head jerked up. Grantaire’s throat worked, eir hands knotting in front of em, but ey didn’t look away this time. Enjolras prayed ey was reading Grantaire’s expression right, and nodded.

“I always meant it.”

“I thought…” ey hesitated. “You would’ve moved on by now. To better things, so to speak.”

Enjolras rolled eir eyes. “You _are_ the better thing. It’s always been you. It always will be you. If you’ll have me,” ey added, trepidation returning. It fled quickly when Grantaire took eir hand, the shock of the sudden contact almost making him jump.

“If I’ll have you?” Grantaire shook eir head with a weak laugh. “Surely it should be the other way round.”

Enjolras squeezed eir hand and laced their fingers together, stepping into Grantaire’s space, close enough to hear it when Grantaire’s breath hitched. “I don’t belong to anyone now,” Enjolras whispered. “Or anything. Except by my own choice.”

Grantaire let out a shaky breath, eir fingers tightening around Enjolras’. “You really want this?”

“ _Yes_.” Enjolras leaned close enough for their noses to brush, and it was Grantaire who tilted eir face up to kiss em, free arm looping round Enjolras’ waist to hold him close.

Enjolras was no longer technically the Summer Sovereign, but ey still had summer’s power, and the heat that burst from eir skin made Grantaire gasp against eir lips, grip tightening. Enjolras pressed their foreheads together, head spinning. “Sorry, I can’t –”

“I don’t mind,” Grantaire blurted, and kissed em again, letting go of eir hand to wrap both arms around em and squeeze. Enjolras made a small sound, half moan, half sob. Grantaire kissed like it was eir last moment alive, and all Enjolras could do was try and match eir pace, heat rolling off eir body in waves.

“I missed you.” The words slipped out before ey could stop them, but Grantaire just groaned in reply, smiling helplessly against Enjolras’ jaw.

“I missed you too.” 

“You didn’t have to wait so long.” Enjolras tipped eir head back and curled a hand in Grantaire’s hair, barely managing to get a handful. Ey grabbed onto one of eir horns instead, and Grantaire’s hips twitched forward against eirs. “You could’ve come sooner…”

“I told you to forget me.” Grantaire’s teeth scraped against Enjolras’ throat, an open-mouthed kiss soothing the spot a second later. “You should’ve forgotten me.”

“I didn’t want to.” Enjolras pushed em against the wall and kissed em again, harder. “I’ll never want to.”

Grantaire shuddered, hands skidding down Enjolras’ back to pull em in, mouth cool and grip strong. Enjolras slid eir hands under Grantaire’s shirt and barely held back a whine – how long had ey wanted to touch Grantaire like this? To touch em at all? Grantaire couldn’t return the gesture, Enjolras’ long robe giving no easy access, but ey made up for it with bruising kisses. Eir lips trailed along Enjolras’ jaw, down eir neck, and Enjolras’ eyelids fluttered whenever ey lingered for more than a second.

“There’s nothing here,” Grantaire whispered against eir shoulder, a horn pressed to Enjolras’ temple. “No bed, my room’s stripped, I didn’t –”

“Mine,” Enjolras said immediately. “I can take us there. Come with me.” It was more a plea than a demand, but Grantaire’s hasty nod banished Enjolras’ lingering worries.

“Wherever you lead.”

They would have time now, Enjolras knew, keeping eir arm wrapped tight around Grantaire’s waist as they tumbled out of the house. Time to touch, and talk, and learn how to be together as equals. Grantaire was beholden to no one, and Enjolras had freed emself of sovereignty. Going together through the Gate to Faerie felt like a new beginning, where both of them would be free.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOA I have never rewritten so much of a fic. The amount of cut material from this story is ridiculous. Some stuff to fill in a few gaps there wasn't time/opportunity to fill: 
> 
> \- Lamarque's changelings were not changelings - like Enjolras, they were fey mutts vae'd picked up, trying to figure out vaes own theory about the succession of various courts. Vae just happened to finally get it right with Enjolras.  
> \- Alveré heard a rumour that Lamarque had the next Summer Sovereign stashed away and sent assassins to stamp both of them out (the Pale Court being in opposition to the Summer Court because politics). After Grantaire claimed Enjolras, Alveré didn't want to give the game away to other courts and their spies by waging all-out war on an unimportant entertainer, so tried to play the waiting game and strike at a more opportune moment. But Enjolras got the crown first, so that didn't work out.  
> \- Enjolras also ended up having to play a waiting game of sorts when Combeferre and Courfeyrac showed em how destructive it would be to just dissolve the Summer Court as soon as ey ruled it. That would've left a lot of faeries very vulnerable and possibly paved the way for various wars and death and destruction. So Enjolras had to exercise a little patience and work at making sure eir court could handle being governed by an elected council rather than an all-powerful monarch. Ey hopes more courts will follow suit, preferably with lower-ranking fey leading the way. 
> 
> I clearly have far too much backstory in my head. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask!
> 
> [There is a mix for this fic!](http://8tracks.com/obito/home-and-other-places-to-dwell) Put together by the wonderfully talented [Ari](http://secondyears.tumblr.com/). :D It's GORGEOUS and utterly perfect for this fic, and I entreat you to give it a listen.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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